


A Dragon's Demand

by VVSIGNOFTHECROSS



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-14 16:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 76
Words: 78,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8020264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VVSIGNOFTHECROSS/pseuds/VVSIGNOFTHECROSS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daenerys has a twin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pentos

****

**Prince Aemon Targaryen**

The sun was blistering hot as he stood on the balcony of his sister’s room. Prince Aemon Targaryen, aged three and ten, silver of hair, and violet of eye, he was a Prince of the Blood, of a dynasty that had long ago been exiled, and his sister was getting ready to be presented to her new husband to be. The thought was an infuriating one, it dampened the good mood he had been in for some time, beforehand. His sister was marrying a horse fucker, a member of the Dothraki, so that their brother could try and claim back what was stolen from them, so long ago. Sighing, Aemon turns back away from the balcony and the sun, and walks into his sister’s room, where she is changing.

His sister with her silver hair, and her violet eyes, much like his, was beautiful, she had always been beautiful to him, even when they were children, and now she was getting married, and the thought deeply angered him. “You don’t have to do this you know.” He finds himself saying, trying desperately to not sound angry.

His sister, Daenerys, looks at him, and smiles sadly. “We both know I do brother. Viserys has commanded it. And he is the head of our house, we must both do as he says.”

Aemon feels anger grow within him, even larger than that which had already been there. “Why? Why must we go along with this madness? Viserys knows just as well as we do that the Dothraki are afraid of the sea. They will never cross the fucking Narrow Sea, to take us across and place his bony arse on the throne. And if this Khal had but a lick of sense, he’d remove both Viserys and I, and place you on the throne. But these horse fuckers don’t know sense, and so he won’t. Viserys is a fool.”

His sister had moved toward him during his time of ranting and now, she places a hand on his cheek, and whispers. “Be careful of what you say brother. We might be able to speak freely, but we both know that these helpers of ours are listening and reporting back to Viserys and the Magister. We cannot say things we do not mean.”

Aemon sighs, feeling his sister’s hand on his cheek, and all the emotions that that brings. “I know, but still, for all his talk of being blood of the dragon, Viserys really does not know what means. Otherwise, he’d not be selling you off like some piece of meat to the highest bidder.”

“But he would merely do the same if we were looking toward Westeros.” His sister reasons. “This would be no different either.”

Aemon wants to be angry at his sister for being so casually accepting of this, of their new situation, he wants to ask her, if this means nothing to her at all, but he does not. He has long since learned to keep silent on things when it comes to them, it is part of the reason he is considering leaving, but he knows he cannot. Aemon would never leave his sister alone, not with Viserys, and definitely not with some horse fucker. “I know. Still, I do find it odd that the magister has told our brother to look to the Dothraki, when he himself has more than enough gold to buy an army for us many times over. Why does he send us off to the Dothraki?”

His sister shrugs. “I do not know. I merely know what has been told to me, and I think we should both accept that brother. If we question too much, Viserys will not be one to forgive. And neither will my new husband.”

That gets Aemon to speak his frustrations. “You should not be scared of some horse fucker. If he dares hurt you, I will kill him myself.”

His sister looks at him with some amusement, her voice is soft but querulous when she replies. “He has not been defeated by anyone in battle, Viserys said as much earlier. How do you expect to defeat him brother?”

Aemon smirks. “There are more ways than simply fighting in battle, to kill someone sister.”

His sister looks horrified at that. “You must not say such things Aemon, they could get you into serious trouble!”

Aemon shrugs. “I do not much care, I will do what I can to make sure you do not marry this horse fucker.” He pauses for a moment, and then asks his sister. “You do not want to marry the horse fucker do you?”

“Of course not.” Daenerys replies. “I want….” She trails off. “I do not know what I want, but I do not want to marry Khal Drogo. But it does not much matter what I want, our brother has decided I shall marry him, and so I shall.”

Aemon sighs, pressing his head to his sister’s, he breathes out softly. “I know sister. But I swear to you, on all that we love and care for, I will do all I can to make sure this marriage does not go through, or that it lasts.”

His sister smiles sadly, and it breaks his heart. “I know you will brother.” After that they break apart, and go their separate ways, Aemon to his rooms to prepare for the meeting with the horselord, and Daenerys remaining in her own room, preparing for the same meeting.

That evening, the horselord comes to see his sister, and Aemon takes one look at him, and instantly hates him. The man is tall, muscled, and a barbarian, he glances at Dany and says nothing, riding off, leaving them all a bit stunned. He finds himself agreeing with Viserys, when his brother calls the man a savage, and a cur, but Aemon knows that his brother will not break the betrothal now, still so hungry for the throne that seems ever elusive. Aemon watches all of this, and then moves inside, breaking the walls of his room that evening in his anger.


	2. Wedding

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

His crown weighed atop his head. The crown of his great-great-grandfather, King Maekar first of his name, the crown his mother had crowned him with, the day news had come of the sack. Viserys remembered that day, remembered the fear and pain he had felt but not quite understood. He remembered his mother’s tears as she had placed the crown atop his head, he remembered promising her to restore them to the throne, he remembered her kisses. He remembered her hands, cold and clammy as she had slipped from this world. Viserys had loved his mother, more than anything in the world, and she had died, delivering two babes into the world, a girl named Daenerys-born too late to make a difference- and a boy Aemon, for the dragonknight.  Viserys had sworn to protect them, and protect them he had, every time word had come of the usurper’s knives, he had taken them and they had been saved. But did they care for him? Did they thank him? No! no they did not, they plotted and schemed, they were fools.

The wedding ceremony had been going on for hours, Khal Drogo was a great beast of man, someone Viserys both admired and feared-he hated himself for fearing a brute, he was blood of the dragon, and the dragon was not scared of anything- still the man had promised him one hundred thousand swords, and so he would sit through the brutish ceremonies. Turning to Illyrio Mopatis, he says. “Now that these two are wed, when might we proceed toward Westeros?”

Mopatis, a fat man who had once been a man of greater stature, clapped his hands over his belly and jovially replies. “Your Grace, the wedding is done, but there are many festivities that still need to be observed. There is of course the bedding that shall take place this eve, but then after that, the Khal must take his wife, the Princess, to Vaes Dothrak, to ensure that she is fit for purpose.”

Viserys bristles at the man’s words. “Daenerys is a dragon; she is more than fit for purpose. Drogo should be honoured.”

“He is most assuredly is my King.” The magister simpers, Viserys thinks to himself that if he did not need the magister, he would gut him for his simpering alone. “But surely you understand the need for ceremony? Once she has been declared fit for purpose by the crones in Vaes Dothrak, then there will be plundering and looting, then the Dothraki will advance forward.”

Before Viserys can reply, his brother Aemon speaks, his voice harsh. “And so they will waste more time? How will they cross the sea that they so fear?”

Viserys glowers at his younger brother. “They will do as their King commands, brother. They are being paid, and Drogo has a bride now, they will do what I tell them to.” He looks to Mopatis for confirmation of this, and then man duly gives it.

“Yes Your Graces. They shall perform their rituals, and then move out. Ships shall be waiting for them in Pentos, for when they return.” Mopatis responds.

Viserys sees his brother squint at the Magister, as if he is about to call him out, and Viserys instead says. “Thank you Magister.” He takes a sip of his wine, glaring pointedly at his brother, who scowls but turns back to scowling at the bride and her husband. Relieved at the peace now between them, Viserys turns to Ser Jorah Mormont and asks. “Tell me Ser Jorah, what do you know about the situation within Westeros?” He knows Mormont comes from the north, but he also knows Mormont was exiled by Stark for something that is a laughable offence, and so he is counting on the anger Mormont no doubt harbours towards the Wolves, to be of use.

Mormont, a great burly man does not disappoint. “The last thing I had heard, was that the Lannisters were growing steadily more powerful within King’s Landing, so much so that they are beginning to isolate various members of the court, such as the King’s own brother, Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End.” That catches Viserys interest, he remembers Renly Baratheon, a boy he shared many firsts with once long ago. Mormont continues. “Secondly, the crown is deeply in debt, but from what I have heard, the Iron Bank is now looking for others to replace the crown.”

Viserys leans forward intently at that. “The Iron Bank could be considering lending aid to the rightful ruler of the throne then?” though the thought is repugnant to him, he supposes it is better than nothing.

Mormont hesitates, and seemingly looks at the magister, before speaking. “I think so yes, Your Grace.”

Before Viserys can press this point home, Aemon speaks. “If you think the Iron Bank will want to have any sort of dealings with you and a Dothraki horde, you are sadly mistaken.”

Viserys looks at his brother with such anger, he feels as though his face is heating up. “Watch your tongue brother. I am still your King.”

His brother snorts. “You wear a crown brother, that does not make you a King. No more than this sword makes me a warrior.”

Viserys stands up then and spits out. “You will remember who and what you are brother. I am your King, and I am the head of our house. Remember that, and do not wake the dragon.”

His brother laughs then, and Viserys feels his face heat with anger, but before he can say anything, the drums and music stop, and the Khal stands, leading Daenerys away from the table where they had been sat, he leads her away and toward her horse. Viserys watches and glowers, his anger still not sated, he looks at his brother, and wishes the boy was still young, young enough that the threat of a beating would make him scared and silence him. But the boy is not a boy anymore, and so Viserys merely sits there, glowering at his brother, before getting up off of his seat, and moving toward his sister, where he whispers into her ear. “Fuck him properly sister, and do not forget, what I told you.” He sees his sister nod before disappearing with the savage, when he sits back down, he orders a cup of wine and looks at his brother. “You will remember your place brother. Or I will remind you of it.” With that he pours the cup of wine over his brother’s head and stands and walks out of the ceremony, laughing as he does so.


	3. Khaleesi

**Daenerys Targaryen**

They left Pentos early in the morning, she was still sore from where her husband and Khal had had his way with her. Riding on her silver, was a painful experience now, but as they rode forth, it got easier. Magister Illyrio had bid them farewell, his stomach bulging alongside his chins, she would not miss the magister, and his silver coated lies. Viserys rode with them, talking to Ser Jorah briefly, before riding in silence. Aemon was somewhere nearby, fuming in anger, it seemed her twin was none too happy with this marriage, and whilst Dany was not happy with it either, there was no point sulking over it, it was done now, and they needed to move on.

As they made their way through the passes, she turns to Ser Jorah and asks him. “Ser Jorah, what do you know about the Dothraki? I learned very little before my marriage.”

Ser Jorah, a muscular and balding knight from the north, takes a moment to consider her question, before he replies. “The Dothraki have always been a nomadic people Khaleesi. They strive on horseback, where there are no warriors who can challenge them. They come from the lands beyond the Bone Mountains and emerged following the Doom of Valyria, where they were near unstoppable, in the ruins of an empire, the people were broken and shattered, and the Dothraki reigned supreme.”

Dany drinks in this information, desperate to learn more about the people she is now tied to. “What happened then?” she asks, for evidently the Dothraki dominance did not last.

At this Ser Jorah grimaces. “The slaving cities of Old Ghis came together, and the unsullied were created. Men taken as children, and made into eunuchs, they were trained in the arts of war, as the old Ghiscari regions were, and soon enough the Unsullied and the Dothraki fought. The Unsullied won, and the Dothraki, led by their greatest Khal, Barbo, fell into ruin. Resorting instead to raiding and terrifying the cities to the west instead. Never since then have the Dothraki had their empire. Until Khal Drogo.”

Sensing a change in attitude from the man riding at her side, she asks. “What do you mean by that Ser? What is so different about my Khal?” the words come out strange to her, and she feels an odd flutter in her chest as she says them.

Ser Jorah does not look at her, but instead looks at the hulking form of Khal Drogo who rides at the front of their party. “Khal Drogo has fought in many battles, Khaleesi, and has never been defeated in any of them. That is why his braid is so long. He leads a Khalassar some one hundred thousand strong, and yes there are women and children amongst them, but the majority are warriors, who are trained to fight and die by their Khal’s orders. He is seen as the first man since Khal Barbo, who could bring the Dothraki back to their empire. He is in short a God amongst the Dothraki.”

 That thought fascinates her, but before she can voice her opinion, her brother Aemon speaks, his tone bitter. “If he is a God, why then does he feel the need to take us in the opposite direction where we need to go? Why do we go to some fucking crones?”

“Aemon!” Dany chides her brother, wondering why his anger is showing now.

Ser Jorah looks at her brother and merely replies. “Even a God needs the approval of the crones of Vaes Dothrak, my Prince. The Dothraki are superstitious, none will do anything without these crones’ approval.”

“So they are as thick as Viserys made out, how odd that our King should be right about something.” Aemon japes, and Dany sighs, she had heard about the incident between her brothers, and she knows resentment is thick.

Deciding to change the subject, Dany asks Ser Jorah. “Where do you think the Magister got the eggs from?” three eggs had been presented to her as a wedding gift, one black as night, another silver as her hair, and the third, green as the jade said to come from Leng. The Magister had said the eggs had come from Asshai, but she is not so sure.

Ser Jorah’s face scrunches up in concentration then, before he finally replies. “I believe he might well have gotten them from Asshai. Your ancestor, King Aegon the Third, sent eggs off under guard to Asshai to be prayed over by maeges, in a vain hope to have them hatched.”

She hears her brother ask curiously. “How many eggs did he send?”

Ser Jorah shakes his head. “None know. All that is known is that he sent the eggs, but they never returned. And King Aegon did nothing to see to their return, so shaken was he by the Dance of Dragons, that had taken the lives of his mother, father and brothers.”

Dany nods, feeling sadness creep in for her ancestor, though she had never met him, and never known much about him. Viserys had only seen fit to talk about the Conqueror, about their father, and a few others, whose names meant nothing to her. Aemon had drunk the names in though, absorbing them in with rapt attention. Things had been different once, they had been a family, but then something changed, when they got to Pentos, Viserys never the most patient of men had turned into a monster. She knew not what it was, but she knew something was different in her eldest brother. It is that, that makes her turn to Ser Jorah and whisper. “You are sworn to my brother, the King, Ser Jorah. Tell me truly, does he have a chance to take the throne?”

Her brother Aemon listens in intently as well, and growls a whisper. “Do not lie here Ser.”

Mormont looks at them both then replies. “It will be difficult. The realm has known peace under the usurper, but he has grown fat and lazy, and his wife and her family dominate the court. They are not well liked; the key will be to strike when there is discord.”

“And will there be discord?” her brother presses, his eyes glinting in the sunlight.

The knight does not speak for a brief moment, and when he does, his voice is surprisingly soft. “There will be, and soon.”

 


	4. Drunken Revelry

****

**Prince Aemon Targaryen**

Vaes Dothrak smelt of horses and shit. The Dothraki were animals, they lived alongside their horses, and they probably fucked them as well. They were barbarians who fucked out in the open, not caring for decency or for common sense. They fought where they fucked, and fucked where they fought, and in the midst of it all, Daenerys was there, shining like a light, a light that was not his.  He fucking hated that. Hated not being able to touch her, to kiss her, only being able to look at her, and then avert his gaze, whenever that cunt Drogo came near, lest he do something stupid, and Viserys like. His brother was being oddly admirable today, more sociable than he had been in years, and Aemon was cautiously hopeful.

His brother raises a cup of wine and Aemon raises his in recognition. “To the stallion who mounts the world.” His brother toasts, taking a deep sip of wine.

“To the stallion who mounts the world, and his mother who births him.” Aemon says in answer, taking a deep sip himself. This feels like a good night as any to get drunk as a rat’s arse, his sister is sat somewhere, next to the horse fuckers and he cannot do anything about it.

“You forget the savage horse fucker who put the stallion within our dear sister, brother.” Viserys jests, taking another sip of his wine.

“I did not want to think of him.” Aemon grouches, taking a deep gulp of wine.

Viserys laughs, a soft sound, much like the laugh he used to laugh before. “Ah brother, do not look so glum. Daenerys will give the Khal his heir, the man has more reason to fight for us now.”

Aemon looks at his brother, trying to see if he’s drunk, he can’t really tell, and so he asks. “What makes you think he won’t simply kill off us both and try and put his cunt on the throne?”

Viserys eyes flash dangerously then. “Because he has neither the brains nor the wits to try. He wants gold and loot, that he will get when he helps put me on my throne.” His brother takes a deep gulp of wine and then says. “As if I have been reduced to this. The Blood of the Dragon, forced to rely on aid from a horse fucker.”

“It is the usurper’s fault, and our supposed allies fault brother.” Aemon responds, unable to keep the anger from his voice. “Had they not abandoned us, perhaps we might have had an actual chance. Perhaps we might be sitting in Westeros now, instead we are here, fucking carousing with horse fuckers.” He spits then, drawing the eyes of some of the Dothraki, he glares at them, knowing he is getting more and more drunk, and not caring, he downs the rest of his wine and summons for another cup.

His brother does the same, then speaks. “You speak sense sometimes Aemon. You know, when you’re not pining after our sister.”

Aemon chokes on his drink, and Viserys sputters out in laughter. He puts his drink down and then says. “Aye, that is true. Though, I think you know more of our history than that fucking bear we have now. He told us Aegon the Dragonbane was our ancestor.”

Viserys looks at him a moment then bursts out laughing. “Well what do you expect a Northman to know? He probably spent more time hitting ironborn then learning anything.”

Aemon laughs, smiling, wondering why conversations with his brother cannot always be like this. “That is very true.” He pauses, hesitating over whether or not to ask the question he so desperately wants to ask. Eventually he decides that the time is right. “Why have you accepted Ser Jorah into your service brother? He’s a traitor to Westeros, he sold slavers, will that sit well with the people?”

Something flashes in his brother’s eyes at the question, and for a moment he fears he has pressed too far. But then his brother merely says. “He knows things brother. He knows the usurper’s court; he knows the usurper’s lords like we do not. He was there for a long time. Jorah Mormont wants to go home, just like we do, and there is nothing a man like that won’t do to go home. I can use that. To stay one step ahead of the usurper’s knives, I would do anything.”

Aemon feels like a little child again, trying to seek comfort in the words of an increasingly erratic brother. “Will we need to keep moving then brother? Will we never know peace?”

His brother looks at him for a long moment, then sighs. “I do not know brother. I wish I could tell you what will happen, but I cannot. All I can tell you is what I know. We have followers in Westeros, men who will rise for us, but we must get to them first.” His brother looks around for a moment then says. “If we indulge these horse lovers their absurdities, then we might get what we want.”

Aemon looks at his brother, then at the place where Dany sits beside her husband, looking somewhere between frightened, happy and sad at the same time, and it makes his heart hurt, and his anger swell within him. He forces the anger down though, he cannot ruin this moment now, not now. So instead he raises his cup and with forced mirth says. “To the Stallion Who Mounts The World, and the Dothraki and their absurdities.”

His brother raises his cup in response and says. “And to us, the dragons forced to lie in bed with horse lovers.” They clink their glasses and take deep gulps of wine. Sharing in their anger and resentment for just one moment, for Aemon knows that it is likely that his brother will not be the same tomorrow, and that fills him with more anger than he could possibly know what to do with.


	5. Winterfell

**Lord Eddard Stark**

Robert had come, and brought with him more people than Ned knew what to do with. There were Lannisters, there were Baratheon soldiers, there were Lannister soldiers, there were retainers, knights, free riders and even more people. They were in Winterfell, for however long Robert wished to stay, and Ned knew that by the end of the visit he would need to make a decision on whether to be hand or not. Ned had never liked the south, it reminded him too much of what he had lost, of Brandon, of Lyanna, of father. It was a cesspit of vultures and vipers, and he did not want to go there, but he might well have to go, and he was not looking forward to that.

Turning from the window, he looks at his wife and Maester Luwin and says. “Just how certain can we be that Lysa is speaking truly. If what we know from court is true, the loss of so many children has greatly affected her. She could be seeing shadows everywhere.” He remembers meeting a woman like that during the rebellion, her eyes were seeing, but they were not.

Catelyn, always the realist says. “She might be paranoid my love, but that does not mean we should not listen. We know the Lannisters have been gaining in influence over the court, and that Jon was not happy with that. If anyone had a reason to remove him, it was them.”

Maester Luwin speaks then. “I agree with Lady Catelyn, my lord. Lady Lysa might not be of sound mind, as she was many years ago, but she should not be ignored. Your own sources report that the Lannisters and the Arryns were growing restless with one another.”

Ned runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I know. And I suspect you are both right. But it leads me to wonder, how could Robert let tensions reach such a level. The man I knew was not so lax.”

“The man you knew has been replaced by a King, my love.” Catelyn says softly. “Kings can afford to do things their lords cannot. It is why I think you must go south to be Hand. You must make sure that justice is found for Jon and for Lysa and their child. And you cannot let the Lannisters grow more powerful.”

Ned sighs. “I know my love, that does not mean I like it any. Starks are not meant to go south, nothing good ever comes from it.”

“You are not your father, Ned, nor are you Brandon. You are the friend of the King, go as his Hand, and you can work together. You do not know what would happen if you do not.” Catelyn states.

Ned turns back to the window and then asks. “What word has there been from Benjen? I had thought to see him with the King’s party.”

“He was tasked with remaining in King’s Landing, my lord.” Maester Luwin responds. “It seems that the King wished to keep one Stark away.”

“No doubt at his witch of a wife’s urging.” Ned grouches. “Does he have anything to say about Jon’s death?”

“Only that it dragged, my lord. One day he was fine, the next he was deathly ill.” Luwin responds.

Ned closes his eyes then, and feels Caitlin’s hand on his shoulder, he puts his hand atop hers. “So it was poison then. Jon was too healthy for such a sudden decline in health. But why would the Lannisters want him gone that badly. That is what I do not understand.”

“Perhaps King’s Landing will hold more answers.” Maester Luwin responds.

Ned turns round, opens his eyes and looks at his wife. “Jon will need to remain here, my love. It won’t be safe to take him to King’s Landing, not with the Lannister woman looking at my every move.”

Thankfully, Catelyn nods. “Of course my love.” Ned smiles gratefully at her, he’d brought her a child who was not hers, at the end of the rebellion, and asked her to raise him, and she’d obliged, something had changed when Jon was four or five, something had changed, and she’d become more loving to the boy, and for that he was grateful.

“Bran will need to come with me as well. Robb does not get along with Joffrey, that is not good. They are to be brothers soon enough, perhaps Bran can heal the divide.” Ned says.

Catelyn tenses slightly at that, and then asks. “What do you make of the Prince, my love? Sansa is already half in love with him.”

Ned grimaces at that. “The boy seems too Lannister for his own good. And Sansa, she barely knows the boy. Perhaps we have made an error there.”

Catelyn laughs. “Would you rather it was Arya?”

Ned laughs, but then sobers up and replies. “I would rather not have any of our daughters going south, or any of our children. King’s Landing is a dangerous place, and even more so for the presence of lions there.”

Catelyn nods and asks. “How many men will you be taking with you my love?”

Ned considers this, usually during peace time, Winterfell would have a garrison of around six hundred men, perhaps seven hundred, twice that number during war. Taking all of the garrison would not be smart. “I will take two hundred men with me, plus a few of the servants I will need in the south. Nothing more.”

Catelyn nods. “That seems reasonable my love.”

Ned then looks at the Maester, and asks. “What do you know of the Maester at the Vale?”

“Coleman?” Luwin responds sounding surprised. “A good man, if somewhat slow in certain things, why my lord?”

“Can he be trusted?” Ned asks, remembering the man somewhat, but knowing that Luwin would be better able to judge.

“I think so yes.” The man replies.

“Good, send a letter to the Vale, tell them to prepare.” Ned responds.

“Prepare? Prepare for what my love?” Catelyn asks sounding worried.

Ned takes her hands in his and says. “Whatever might come.”


	6. Bear

**Ser Jorah Mormont**

The Targaryens had ruled Westeros for nearly three hundred years by the time Robert’s Rebellion had happened. They had gone from the greatest dynasty the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen, into a dynasty that was crippling itself from infighting and paranoia. As Jorah looks at the three dragons, the last three dragons still alive, he thinks to himself that they have been left a hard burden. King Viserys, the eldest of them all, wears the crown as if it is both a blessing and a curse, there are days when Jorah sees brilliance in the King, and there are days when he sees nothing but madness in the King and it makes him sad. Then there is Prince Aemon, angry, bitter, and clever Prince Aemon who could achieve wonders if he put aside his anger for a moment. Then Prince Daenerys, quiet and nothing special. These were the three dragons, and now they were to reclaim their birth right, and he was to go home.

The King was sat nearby, and upon seeing Jorah looking his way asks. “Ser Jorah, tell me something. You did many things before you came into your senses and joined your rightful King. Tell me what did you see and do?”

Jorah bites his tongue for a moment as a sharp reprieve comes to mind, this is not some serving boy, this is his King, and his life depends on the man liking him. So biting back the reprieve, he takes a moment to collect his thoughts, then says. “I served in a variety of capacities in the Free Cities before coming here Your Grace. I first worked as a first sword for a magister in Lys, which was where my wife then decided to leave me.” Lynese, the thought of her is a bitter one, if he ever sees her again, he does not know what he would do. “Then I left Lys and joined the Second Sons, where I fought a number of battles for greedy men wishing to extort a profit from the disputed lands. Then the Second Sons went through a change in leadership and I decided to leave with my winnings, and I wandered around Essos.”

The King looks at him intrigued, really, if Jorah thinks about it, the King is reasonably bright, he must be to have taught his siblings the common tongue, High Valyrian and a bit of their own history, all the while being on the run. It is a shame that his smartness does not outweigh the madness eating his soul. “And what did you find during your time wandering around Essos, Ser Jorah?” the King asks intrigued.

Jorah hesitates a moment, he remembers very well what he learned during his time wandering the eastern continent, but there are some things that one never mentions again, and there was the promise he had made. “I learned that the Essosi are a folk who take great pleasure in feeling as if they are better than everyone else, but when it comes down to it, they want the same things that everyone wants.”

“And what might that be?” the King asks.

“Food, money and someone to love them. They just want it in a different order.” Jorah responds.

The King nods, and then with some fury says. “The Essosi think they are superior to us, because they sit in manses, whilst we sit in castles. I remember meeting some pompous cunt who told me that I was a dragon, but one without teeth, because my castle was not worth as much as his manse.” There is a fire in the King’s eyes, and Jorah can feel nervousness growing in him. “The man did not live long.” The King continues gleefully. “I do not accept being talked down by some Essosi fucker. I am a King, and I will be addressed as such.”

“Of course Your Grace.” Jorah replies bluntly, though inside, he finds himself wondering what sort of hell he’s gotten himself into.

“Now tell me Ser, you have spoken of many things, but what do you know of Westeros? What do you know of the usurper?” the King asks, his eyes alight with fire and hunger.

Jorah looks around then says. “The Usurper is slowly alienating his supporters Your Grace. The Lannisters grown in power and force the King’s own brothers into the shadows. Rumour has it that Jon Arryn and the usurper quarrelled about Lannister favouritism long before anything came of the small rebellions the usurper faced.”

“Rebellions?” the King asks. “What rebellions?”

Scrambling now, Jorah replies quickly. “They were minor revolts, led by lords who had grown disaffected with the power the Lannisters held at court. There were whispers that these rebellions were directed by Lord Arryn. As a means of showing the usurper that his power was not as strong as he thought it was, and that to rely solely on one house was no good thing. The Lannisters are reviled within the realm at large for the role they played during the sacking of King’s Landing.”

The King nods with savage approval. “As rightly they should be. And what of the Starks, what do you think of them?”

Jorah hesitates here, old loyalty warring with a new born desire for revenge against Ned Stark. He knows more about that man, then he would like to know, he also knows some of the man’s darkest secrets, and yet he cannot tell the King them. “Stark is a man who does what he thinks is right, that does not make him any less of a traitor Your Grace.” He replies cautiously.

“When I am King, I will give you the north if you so desire. Even if it means I need to see half of the north dead, and the Starks wiped out. I shall give you the north and Winterfell as well. I will need a loyal man there to hold it for me.” The King replies grandly.

Unsettled by this Jorah says softly. “The Starks are the north Your Grace, you will need them there.”

“I will not deal with traitors.” The King responds heatedly.

Sensing that this will go nowhere, Jorah merely bows his head and murmurs. “Of course Your Grace.” With that they fall silent and watch the entertainment the Dothraki have put on for them, though Jorah does not fail to note the way Prince Aemon plays with his dagger as he looks at Khal Drogo.


	7. Wolf Pup

**Benjen Stark**

King’s Landing vibrated with life and pleasure, it was a teeming hub of activity, that Benjen found he quite liked. Oh, he knew that as a northerner he was supposed to be repulsed by it all, but he wasn’t. He loved it here. He had been sent here as a lad of fifteen, by Ned, as House Stark’s representative at the court of Robert Baratheon, to ensure that northern interests were not ignored. Benjen had quickly become friends with the King, as well as with the King’s brother, Renly as well as the imp, Tyrion Lannister, they made quite the formidable trio, if he was honest. He had done his part for his house as well, reminding the King of money to be repaid-which unlike the debt owed the Iron Bank and the Lannisters, had been repaid- he had put forward northern interests, ensuring more men were sent north to the wall, and that the King’s Road was repaired frequently. It was a good thing, him being here, he enjoyed it, and he’d had his pleasure with some of the ladies in the brothels and at court as well. Now though, things were changing, he could sense it.

Benjen looks at Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell, Renly he counts as a friend, Loras, well the Knight of Flowers is useful, but a fop, nothing more. He looks at them and then says. “My brother is going to come steaming in here, looking for the solution to who murdered Jon Arryn. He will not do it quietly, and he will not do it peacefully.”

“And you believe Arryn was murdered then? Despite his advanced years?” Renly drawls out in question.

Benjen looks at his friend, wondering if the man is really being serious, there are times when he wishes his friend was not quite so prone to japing, and took life more seriously. Especially when Loras Tyrell was there, whispering in his ear. “Yes. I do believe Jon Arryn was murdered. There is no other explanation for why he could have suddenly dropped down dead, when the previous day he was fighting fit, and ready for action.”

“Who could have done the deed then?” Ser Loras asks, yawning slightly as he does so.

Renly speaks then, his voice deadly serious. “The Lannisters are the most likely bet for this. Cersei Lannister and her father have always wanted Jon Arryn gone, he was the obstacle standing between them and complete control of the throne. Robert is far too weak to tell the whore when to shut up. As for Tywin, I think that man is the only person my brother has ever been afraid of. That he owes the man money, is not a good thing.”

“The manner of which Jon Arryn died it is certainly possible that poison was involved. Poison is a woman’s weapon.” Benjen says agreeing with his friend.

“It is also a Dornishman’s tool. Specifically, that of the Red Viper.” Ser Loras points out.

Benjen shakes his head. “No, the Dornish are not as foolish as that. Even a man such as Prince Oberyn would know that the moment it was discovered by anyone connected to Robert, that Jon Arryn had been poisoned, the finger would be pointed at him. No, I do not think it is him.” At least he hopes it is not, they cannot afford a war with Dorne, not with what is coming.

“Then if it is truly the Lannister woman who did the deed, it was likely done through Pycelle. The man has been a Lannister lackey for as long as I can remember.” Renly replies, bitterly. “We will need more proof though, to convince Robert. I do not doubt my brother would jump at an opportunity to remove his wife from his way, but he will need some convincing I think. He has become quite good at hiding himself from the truth.”

They all know what Renly means by that, the little rebellions that Robert had faced during his reign, had been organised by Jon Arryn, as a means of showing to his former ward that he could never rest easy on his laurels. Robert had never believed it though, and ignored them, and blamed it on the dragons. Though the dragons did not have such power, Benjen had seen to that. Stroking his beard, he turns to Loras and says. “My brother will go looking hard when we present him with certain facts. How soon can you get your sister here?”

“Very soon. All I need to do is send word, and we can have her here within a fortnight.” Ser Loras responds confidently.

Renly looks at him inquisitively, and Benjen has to fight to keep his face expressionless. “I am surprised at you Stark. I would’ve thought you’d be jumping at the chance to see my nephew and your niece marry. Why then are you so suddenly determined to prevent it happening?”

 _If you knew the real reason why, you’d think me mad._ Benjen thinks to himself, aloud, he merely says. “Starks do not do well in the south, especially Stark women. I do not want my niece to suffer the way my sister did.” He looks at Loras then and says. “Lady Margaery has been prepared for this role her entire life, she knows what to do.”

“And your brother will be okay with this?” Renly asks.

“Yes. Ned only wants what’s best for the family.” Benjen responds. _And if he has any common sense he will listen to me. Not like Brandon or father._ The thought is a bitter one, one he has learned to keep buried for some time, deciding to change the topic, he asks Renly. “What are the city watch saying about Baelish?”

At this his friend smirks. “The usual, he boasts about how he controls Slynt and the high command with his money and whores. Forgetting that the ground troops are mine, and mine alone. His boastfulness will be his downfall.”

Benjen nods. “Good, the less he does, the more we have to achieve.”


	8. Woman

**Daenerys Targaryen**

There was a child growing inside of her, not just any child, but the Stallion Who Would Mount the World. He was to be the prophesied saviour of the Dothraki, their leader and their God. He would lead them to conquer all the known world. She was not sure what to make of that, she had never wanted the Iron Throne, that was her brother, Viserys, right, not hers, but if her child was to claim the throne, she would support him. Her husband seemed to have begun paying more attention to her, as a result of the crone’s words. That and the fact she spoke Dothraki now, seemed to make her more appealing to him. He did not ask her opinions on things, but he spoke to her, and she found herself feeling more kind to him, and more attracted. He was not a bad looking man at all, though there was guilt at these thoughts whenever she looked at Aemon. She sighed, she did not know how to make things better, she was just glad her brothers could speak to her still.

“We will be in Vaes Dothrak for another three days.” Dany says, looking at Viserys, to make sure that he does not do anything silly whilst here. There had been a few close calls, but nothing too bad. Since becoming Khaleesi she had felt a new sense of purpose and confidence that she had never felt before. “We just need to get the blessings of the Great Stallion and then we shall be on our way.”

“You need to get the blessings of a horse?” Viserys asks incredulously, anger flashing in his eyes. “You are a dragon; you need no one’s blessings.”

Dany sighs, her brother doesn’t understand how these things work, he never has. “It is important to get the Great Stallion’s blessings, Viserys, otherwise we shall have a fraught journey.”

Her brother snorts. “Who told you that nonsense?”

“Khal Drogo and my handmaidens.” Dany explains, knowing that will not make one whit of a difference to her brothers.

“And you think they are not having you on?” her brother Aemon asks then. His voice filled with anger. “Sister, they could well be doing this to humiliate you. No one has been to that fucking temple in years. Just ask Ser Jorah, or even Rakharo.”

Dany looks at Aemon surprised, she had not thought he’d have deigned to speak with one of her blood riders so content had he been to stew in anger. “When did you speak to Rakharo?”

“Yesterday.” Aemon replies curtly. “I wanted to know when we’d be leaving this shit hole. He said we should have left a day ago. But that you had asked that we stay.” There is something accusatory in her brother’s voice that makes her blush.

“I did no such thing.” Dany replies defensively, and it is the truth, Drogo had told her simply that they were not leaving for another three days, and she had accepted.

“That is not what Rakharo told me. He told me that you were begging to remain here for a little while longer, that you did not want to leave just yet. Hence why you are going to the Temple of the Great Stallion.” Aemon says, his voice cold as ice.

Dany runs her hands through each other nervously. “I do not know why Rakharo told you that. How can you even speak to him, I did not know you know Dothraki?”

Her brother shrugs. “I learned.” She wants to ask why, and how, but Aemon does not tell her these things anymore.

Viserys speaks then, his tone angry. “I do not care who said what. What I want to know is where are we going from this shit hole?”

Dany bristles slightly at the way her brother refers to the home of her people- for they are her people now- and replies. “We are going to keep marching west, looking for loot and plunder.”

“You mean the fool is going to keep going to try and distract us from our main goal. He will not take use across the narrow sea until you have given birth to his god damned hell spawn.” Viserys spits out angrily.

Dany looks at Viserys and then at Aemon and asks in a tiny voice. “Is that such a bad thing? Then I can help with the conquest. I am no good like this.” She says gesturing at her growing midriff.

It is Aemon who speaks then, his voice cuts through everything else. “Well, it is good to know you still remember us. And that you’re not lost when you bend over for that savage.” With that he turns and walks away from them, from her, leaving her fighting back tears.

She feels Viserys eyes on her, and when she looks up she expects to hear some cutting remark from him, instead he merely sighs and says. “I will go and talk to him. I suggest you think on what has been said here sister. You are a dragon, never forget that.” With that her brother walks away as well.

Dany stands there, holding her stomach, fighting back tears of despair, as she realises what her attempt to get to know her husband has done to her and Aemon. She feels angry, angry at herself and at Aemon, why can’t he understand why she’s doing this. Gods she feels so helpless, so very helpless.  She moves back into her tent, to where the eggs rest in their chest, she takes out the white egg, and runs her hands over it, praying and praying. She wishes that the egg would just hatch, so then she’d have someone other than her brothers and her husband and the emptiness to keep her company. As she prays, she feels her son kick, and she weeps a little bit more. Her whole life has been based in fear, she wonders if his will be as well. She hopes not.


	9. Wolves

**Lord Eddard Stark**

“So you are trying to tell me that Lady Lysa was truly as mad as what the Lannisters would have me believe?” Ned asks disbelievingly.

“I’m not trying to tell you anything Ned, or rather, I am not trying to convince you of anything Ned. I am telling you the truth. Lady Lysa was mad, as mad as Aerys.” Benjen responds firmly.

Ned looks at his brother, an internal debate raging within him, he knows Benjen had been keeping tabs on Lysa Arryn for him during his time in King’s Landing, and as such, he knows his brother knows more about the lady than he does, and yet, the thought of someone being that mad, is abhorrent to him. Hence why he asks. “Are you certain of this?”

Benjen looks unimpressed. “Of course I am. I told you about the time she took a sack of flour and pretended it was a child of hers, did I not?”

Ned moves around on his chair, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the reminder of that particular incident, he had not told Cat about that, and with good reason. Softly he replies. “Yes, I remember. But why would she be mad enough to do as you are suggesting Benjen?”

His brother sighs. “Because there is no damned evidence that the Lannisters poisoned Jon Arryn, Ned. I have looked over every record, every conversation that I can find, and there is nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“So, you think she made that accusation up then? Is she as mad as that?” Ned queries, and at his brother’s look he holds up his hand and says. “Alright, say she is as mad as that, what then? What are you suggesting Benjen? That she had her own husband murdered?”

Benjen runs a hand through his hair, a gesture that Ned notices as being startlingly similar to Jon’s, and he feels something like nervousness run through him. “I do not know Ned. All I know is that much of what Lady Lysa says cannot be completely trusted. Not to the extent that we would like it. Everything I have looked at does not suggest that the Lannisters did away with Jon Arryn, even if they did have good reason to do so. Indeed, it seems that Lady Arryn had more reason to get rid of her husband.”

Ned shifts in his chair, uncomfortable at the turn of this conversation. “But why? Nothing you told me suggested there was anything but coldness between them Ben why would she act now?”

Benjen runs a hand through his hair once more and then responds. “Because Jon Arryn was considering sending her son away.”

“To Casterly Rock?” Ned asks, he had heard this from Robert before, but did not think it reason for someone to have their husband removed.

Benjen’s look of confusion gets to him as well, and he finds himself wondering why Benjen is confused. “No, he wasn’t going to send their son to Tywin Lannister, the man was many things Ned, but he was not mad. He was going to send him to Stannis Baratheon.”

Ned hesitates then, he wants to ask why the King would say one thing and his brother another, but then he decides against focusing on that and instead asks. “Why would Jon feel the need to send his son anywhere? That was not like him.”

Benjen shrugs. “I do not know Ned. All I know is that before his death, Jon Arryn was very much in communication with Stannis Baratheon. They went to a lot of places together, mainly brothels, they were looking for something.”

Ned feels as though he should ask what they were looking for, but by looking at Benjen, he can tell that his brother likely does not know what it was his mentor and Stannis were looking for. And so he instead changes the topic and asks. “What of Baelish? Do you think he can be trusted?”

Benjen shakes his head, almost adamant. “No. Of course not Ned. He despises our family for what Brandon did to him during that foolish duel. He wants our blood, nothing more.”

Ned sighs. “Do you think the man still holds a grudge for something that happened when he was all but a boy? If so, then why is he in King’s Landing?”

“Of course he holds a grudge Ned, you took the woman he believes belongs to him away from him. And he is in King’s Landing because of Lysa Arryn, she was the one who saw to it that he got a place at court, and worked his way up from there. It was her who recommended him to Jon Arryn for the vacant position of master of coin. He thinks he controls the City Watch, but he does not. That is the only good thing that has come from all of this.” Benjen replies.

Cautiously Ned asks. “Why, what do you think is going to happen Benjen?”

His brother looks at him as if he has grown a second head, and replies. “Well you’ve asked for the Vale to prepare to mobilise, I think it is quite obvious what I think is going to happen Ned. You are not exactly the subtlest of people. Give it a few weeks, and the Queen will be preparing to bring things to action. Had you brought the boy, perhaps we could’ve avoided this.”

“I made a promise Ben. I could not bring the boy here. It would have been far too dangerous.” Ned responds, fighting to keep the heat from his voice.

Benjen shakes his head, and Ned feels anger grow within him at that. “You’re being too cautious Ned. The boy needs to come here, if he is to ever get what is owed to him. Keeping him over in Winterfell is doing no one any favours.”

Putting his fist down on the table, Ned replies. “I will not use him for the games that need to be played. I am not father, Ben. I would have thought you’d have understood all of that.” He sees something flash in his brother’s eyes, but his brother does not reply, instead he turns and leaves, leaving Ned to consider everything in silence.


	10. Fire

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

The crown was a weight on his head, a weight that he welcomed, it reassured him that he was doing the right thing, that he was not dreaming. Recently, everything had seemed like a dream, a terrible fucking dream. They had been given an army, but the man commanding that army had no intention of leading them back to Westeros, dragging them through lands great and small, that had no purpose, other than to infuriate Viserys. He could not very well challenge the great horse fucker to a war, and so instead, he found himself moving toward his sister, his anger making him froth slightly. He looks at her and spits out. “You!” his sister looks at him with dispassionate eyes, and he misses the fear. “You are the reason we are nowhere near where we are supposed to be.”

“What do you mean?” Daenerys asks, her voice calm.

It is that calmness that makes him snap. “You have had us cavorting around a fucking forest and then a wasteland for the past few moons now. It has served for nothing. Aemon told you that your horse fucker of a husband was doing this deliberately, and still you are agreeing to it. What is wrong with you?!! Have you forgotten where your true loyalties lie?”

There is a crowd gathering, Viserys can hear them whispering, see them pointing, but he does not care, right now, he needs to say this, he needs to get his anger out. His sister looks at him with cold eyes. “I have forgotten nothing brother. I know where my loyalties lie, and they are not to you.”

The words hit him hard, like thunder striking. He slumps slightly against a wall of a hut; Vaes Dothrak has always been a slumbering mess. “What? Why?” he finds himself asking, his voice terrifyingly soft.

Dany laughs at his question, she actually laughs at him. “You sold me off to the highest bidder, to get an army. You did not think to ask how I might have felt, how I might have been feeling, whether I wanted this. You just sold me off to him, and never did you ever think to ask how I was doing afterwards.”

Viserys is stunned, he does not know what to say. He stares at his sister, and then feels a hand on his shoulder, he turns and sees his brother Aemon looking at him. “Let it go brother.” His brother whispers to him, but Viserys shrugs his brother’s hand off of himself and responds.

“No. I will not let this go.” He growls, looking at Daenerys. “You say I never thought to ask, then fine. But do not ignore what I have done for you. For you both. I fought for you, I have raised you, and I have fed you. When the usurper’s knives came crawling toward us, I took you away, I protected you. I sold our mother’s fucking crown so you both could eat.”

His sister looks at him coldly. “You might have done those things, but you also did bad things to us. You beat Aemon till he was black and blue, you have done that several times. You came close to doing things to me that we shall not speak of now. You are many things brother, but you are not my King anymore.”

Viserys stands there, anger seeping into him, but fear as well, the Dothraki are creeping ever closer now, their hands on their swords, even though one cannot draw steel in Vaes Dothrak. His sister turns her horse and moves away from him, closer to the exit of the city. He knows he should be wary, but his anger makes him follow her, on foot. He finds himself barking out. “You know nothing sister. You do not know what it is like to have to do all of this.”

His sister stops her horse on the outskirts, turning around she fixes him with a cold gaze, that reminds him suddenly of their mother. “You never even thought to share your problems brother. You merely did as you pleased. Well I am no longer yours to command.” With that she turns around and moves onward, inspiring even more anger in him.

“What do you know of anything girl.” Viserys snarls, the dragon awakening within him. “You are a simple minded fool who knows nothing of anything. You want to go with your horse fucker husband, then go. Go and enjoy the life he gives you. You will never find happiness there.”

His sister does not even bother stopping her horse, forcing him to walk after him, he knows his horse is somewhere, but he does not know where, nor does he much care, he needs to go after the girl, make her see sense. As he gets nearer to his sister’s horse, one of her blood riders dismounts and hits him. He bends over from the force of the blow, but before he can get up another blow hits him, he hears the unsheathing of steel and gasps. “You cannot do that here.”

“We are not in Vaes Dothrak anymore, Khal Raggart.” A voice replies. He does not know who, but he feels a blow to his chest and head and he slumps to the ground.

Viserys is dragged to his feet by rough hands, he finds himself staring into the eyes of Khal Drogo, the man looks completely terrifying, his hair is wild, his eyes are wild, and Viserys knows it before it happens. There are no words exchanged, but men dismount and their daggers pierce his skin, making him cry out in pain. Before the life fades from his eyes, he looks at his sister, and sees nothing, he looks at Aemon and all he sees is anger, pure white, blinding anger, and he laughs. The daggers pierce his skin over and over again, but he knows from looking at his brother that the dragon is not dead, oh heavens no, the dragon is just waking. His last words, mumbled out in a scream of blood are simple. ”You have woken the dragon, now burn.”


	11. What To Do?

****

**Lady Catelyn Stark**

Her son, her beautiful boy lay crippled in bed, fallen from the broken tower of Winterfell. They said he had fallen, and Catelyn had not believed them, Bran never fell, indeed, the discovery of a blond hair in the tower, had only confirmed what she had thought. That he had been pushed. That someone had sent a hired knife to do away with her son, only served to further confirm this. She did not know why someone would want to harm her son, but she had to find answers, and so she had travelled south, with Ser Rodrik, bringing the knife with her. After an interesting discussing with Petyr and the Spider, she was now speaking with her husband and brother in law.

“Petyr seems to think that the dagger belongs to Tyrion Lannister.” Catelyn begins. “He says that he lost the dagger to the imp during a wager during Prince Joffrey’s nameday tourney. Where the imp bet against his brother.”

Benjen speaks then. “The imp never bets against his brother.” He pauses and then continues. “And I remember that tourney, the imp wasn’t even there.”

That confuses her. “How do you know that Ben? You weren’t at the tourney?” she knows because he was venturing through the Riverlands.

“I know because he was with me. We were at Riverrun, sampling some of the more delight able pleasures of the realm.” Her good brother responds with a wry grin.

This makes her very uncertain, she knows Benjen, and knows he would never lie about something as important as this, but then, if he is telling the truth, what was Petyr saying to her? “Why then would Petyr claim that he had given the dagger to the imp, if indeed the man was not even there?”

Benjen shrugs. “Baelish likes his little games, perhaps this is one of them?”

“He is playing a very dangerous game then.” Ned all but growls. Her husband looks at her and asks. “Do you think he was playing you false deliberately?”

Catelyn hesitates, her automatic reaction is to defend Petyr, but from what Benjen has told them, it seems that Petyr was indeed playing them false. “I do not know my love. For Lord Varys told me the same tale, upon further questioning. I do not know why Petyr would try and play me false though.”

At this Benjen laughs. “Oh, he wasn’t trying to play you false Cat, he was merely telling you something he knew you would have to tell Ned.”

At this Catelyn finds herself asking. “What do you mean?”

Benjen looks at her, and then at Ned and simply says. “Baelish has a history of talking about his relationship with you and your sister, Cat. He has made many bold claims, and it is obvious to anyone with eyes that he still desires you. As such, this information he gave you, was no doubt done in a manner to convince you to tell Ned, in the hopes that Ned would act on it.” At this Benjen pauses and then says. “Forgive me brother, but when it comes to the Lannisters you do not act rationally. That was what Baelish was counting on.”

Catelyn sighs. Wondering if they will ever truly get out from under the shadow of Brandon and the duel he fought with Petyr. “So he was trying to start trouble then?” she asks.

“Most likely.” Benjen agrees.

Ned looks troubled by that. “Or he could have tried to convince us that was his intention.”

At this Benjen looks troubled. “You suggest then that he and the eunuch are working together for something?”

“I think that would make some sense, as to why they were both there when Cat appeared in Baelish’s brothel.” Ned responds, his hands clenching together at the thought of it, Cat sighs at that, she is grateful Benjen came and took her to his manor within the city, away from Baelish and his designs.

“So then, what do we do from here?” Catelyn finds herself asking. “We do not have enough evidence to level any sort of accusation against the Lannisters, even though they seem the most likely perpetrators of the crime against Bran.” She had told Ned about the hair when she had seen him the first time, and he had agreed with her that something was most definitely there, but what it was, neither of them knew.

Ned looks at her a moment and then says. “You must return to Winterfell, send word to the men of the north to prepare. I want archers stationed in Moat Cailin, and if you see Howland, tell him to prepare his men. I want Winterfell’s defences strengthened and I want Theon watched. He is friends with Robb, but I do not know how deep that friendship extends.”

“You expect there to be war?” Catelyn asks.

Ned nods. “I most definitely think something will happen, with the way the Lannisters are flaunting their power. I cannot stand to let them dig their claws in anymore.” There is a stubborn determination in her husband’s voice, that makes Cat think there will definitely be war.

She moves to him and takes his hands in hers and whispers. “Be safe my love.” He nods and she looks at Benjen and says. “Keep him safe, and my girls as well Ben.”

Her good brother nods. “I will my lady. I promise.”

With that Benjen turns and leaves, leaving her and Ned to themselves, and she looks at him and asks. “What do you think this means then? If we cannot trust Petyr, who are we to trust within King’s Landing?”

“Benjen of course.” Ned responds. His hands holding hers tightly. “No one else. King’s Landing is a nest of vipers, but hopefully we shall emerge from this without a scratch.”

“If you need to come home, then come home my love. Do not stay here for overly long, just because of Robert.” She replies, kissing their joined hands and then kissing his lips, feeling as if this might be the last time she does so.


	12. Sun And Stars

**Prince Aemon Targaryen**

Anger continues to course through him, whenever he thinks of what happened. His brother might have been mad, and he might have been unstable, but he was Aemon’s brother, a member of the Blood of the Dragon, and no one, not even some fucking savage, touched the Blood of the Dragon. Aemon seethed whenever he thought about it, and yet, Dany did nothing, she seemed to be ignoring him and that made it all the more aggravating. Ser Jorah had of course sworn fealty to him as his King, but that was not enough, he wanted revenge, he wanted blood.

Aemon looks at Ser Jorah, as they sit in the shade. “Khal Drogo must suffer for what he did, the question is how. The man is protected day and night, and my sister is always with him.” That is a constant issue.

Ser Jorah is silent for some time, then responds. “You must seek a way to challenge him, Your Grace. Not directly, but through someone else. Someone who might be a more willing conspirator to see him dead.”

Aemon looks around the camp, seeing the men and women of the savages running around, doing their thing, and he sighs. “Who might be the one who could be stupid enough to go after the Khal of Khals?”  anger grows within him. “Most of these fuckers see him as a God. And who wants to hurt a God?”

Ser Jorah snorts. “You have one man who is more than willing to do the deed, who has in fact offered to do the deed.” The man nods towards Rakharo, the beast who had sworn himself to Aemon after a little bit of persuasion.

Aemon runs a hand through his hair, considering this. “Rakharo is still one of the man’s blood riders, he will not cross that line, unless I am the one who steps over it. And I do not mean to be the one to instigate openly.”

“Because of your sister, Your Grace?” the knight asks.

Aemon barely nods, instead he grunts his acknowledgement. “I do not want her to get too much trouble, not now she is so along. But Drogo must go before the babe is born.”

Ser Jorah looks at him inquisitively. “Do you think the babe will be a boy?”

Aemon shrugs, trying to act as if he does not care, when in actual fact the thought has kept him up at night. “I do not know, nor do I much care. The babe, whatever sex it is, will be a savage, and will seal my sister’s fate.”

“So what do you wish to do?” Ser Jorah whispers.

Aemon takes a cup of wine, hands one to Ser Jorah, takes a deep swig, and then says. “I do not much know. The babe is no threat, but my sister must not be harmed whatever happens. These savages will try something; of that I have no doubt.”

Ser Jorah nods. “I know someone who can handle this issue, with mostly clear results, Your Grace. None will ever know it was you who ordered it.”

“Where will you meet this man? Where is he from? When will you get his service?” Aemon enquires.

Ser Jorah smiles an enigmatic smile. “There is no man who knows poison half so well as a Dornish woman. We shall be meeting them very soon Your Grace, of that I can tell you for a certainty.”

Aemon takes another sip of wine, and leans back. “The Dornish are getting involved now? Now that my brother is dead? How convenient.”

Ser Jorah looks slightly uncomfortable at this. “Sometimes people choose to make choices that do not make sense to those more in tune to the higher powers.”

“So essentially, there is one person coming, not the Dornish.” Aemon points out.

Ser Jorah sighs. “Just one person Your Grace, you are right. But one person is better than none. Your brother, forgive me Your Grace, was not the sanest of men, no one would fight for a man who thinks far too much like the mad King.”

Aemon feels anger grow inside him again, anger at the fact that someone would so easily dismiss his brother, the rightful King, just as he is angry with Viserys for being so ridiculous and insane. That word, that word is something that makes him even more angry. “And what makes me different?” Aemon whispers, barely able to control his anger this time.

Ser Jorah looks somewhat uncertain as to how to respond, which makes Aemon feel as if the next words out of his mouth will be the truth. “You are not your brother, Your Grace. You are not your father, either.” The man responds simply.

That does not quite answer his question, but he decides to accept it. He takes another deep swig of wine, and then asks the man. “Tell me Ser Jorah, what will it take to win the Seven Kingdoms?”

The old knight seems to be considering how to respond to the question posed, eventually he takes a sip of wine as well, then responds. “You must win people over to your cause, Sire. Conquest is all well and good, but the people, they are the ones you need.”

“The nobles? Or the common people?” Aemon asks, curiosity getting the better of him, even as he feels the wine sink in within him.

“The common people will do as they have always done Sire.” Ser Jorah replies. “Give them a chance to follow you and they will. It is the nobles you need Sire. The ones who sit in their castles, and fight the wars. Make them see you as the Dragon, and the war will be over, before it has begun.”

Aemon looks at the man, then at the cup of wine in his hand, he stares into the distance, at the banner flapping in the wind, he takes a deep sip of wine. “A dragon.” He smiles. “Now isn’t that a thought.” Somewhere in the distance, he hears a roar, the roar of history.


	13. Storm Queen

**Daenerys Targaryen**

They moved through the deserted land of eastern Essos, and there was an emptiness to her. She did not feel scared, Khal Drogo was not scary to her anymore, he was caring, and she had come to understand him. She understood him better than she understood her twin, and that was something that made her desperately sad. She did not know how to reach Aemon, there seemed to be a cloud of anger across her twin’s face whenever she saw him now, he never bothered to speak to her, unless it was in clipped tones, Rakharo was always with him, and that made her nervous. Drogo was always watching her brother now as well, and that made her even more nervous. It was why she had come to his tent, in the dead of the night to confront him, to try and figure out what he was doing.

She stands before him, wearing Dothraki garb, it is more revealing than anything she had ever worn before, but she hopes it will work. “Aemon.” Dany begins, looking at her twin, seeing him sitting down, garbed in a tunic and breeches in their house colours, he looks like a man possessed, a strong man. “What are you doing?”

He looks at her, his violet eyes blazing with barely concealed rage. “What do you mean what am I doing? I am sitting down, resting. We had a long journey through the deserted hovels.”

Dany senses the bitterness in his words, and she cringes. She understands his anger, truly she does. How could she not? “I know that. I meant, what are you doing with Rakharo? Every time I see you now, you are with him and Ser Jorah. What are you plotting?” the words come out sounding more like an accusation than she meant them to.

Her brother’s eyes narrow and his response is barely above a whisper when he replies. “I am ensuring the safety of our family. Not that that seems to matter to you.”

Dany bristles, sensing the implication in her twin’s words. “Viserys was a mad man, brother. Surely you know that?!”

Aemon stands, and comes to stand right before her, towering over her. “He was still our brother. He did not deserve to die the way he did.” Her brother turns, making it so that his back is to her, his voice is filled with barely concealed anger. “Your husband murdered the King he had sworn to see on the throne. I do not know if he will not do the same to me.”

The implication of her brother’s words horrifies her, so much so, that she is forced to reply in hushed whispers. “You truly think Drogo would do something like that to you? You have not given him any reason to do that to you!”

Her brother whirls around and stares at her, rage in his eyes. “And Viserys had?!” he snarls. “Yes Viserys was mad, and he could be cruel, but he was still our brother, Dany. That savage of yours had no right to do what he did.” Her twin looks at her measuredly then, and she tries to stand tall, to hide her emotions, but she knows he knows. “Unless you asked him to.” That comes out in something barely above a whisper. Dany says nothing, she remains silent as her brother processes the truth. “Why?” is all he asks.

Dany hesitates, she had not expected this question, she thought that he’d understand, they’d often talked about Viserys’ cruelty and what they were going to do to deal with it, but nothing had ever come about it. She expected gratitude, not this. “I…I…we…I…thought it would be better this way.”

“You thought it would be better to allow a fucking savage to kill our brother? To allow the horse lords to see that they could kill us? Do you know what sort of message that sends?” Aemon snarls, all pleasantness gone from him, rage that she has not seen for years upon him. “You think they will stop with Viserys? Your fucking husband asks them to, they will gladly kill me as well.”

“No!” Dany exclaims horrified by the very thought of losing her twin. “Drogo would never do such a thing.”

Her brother laughs. “You aren’t that naïve are you sister? You know that’s exactly what he’d do.”

Dany looks at her brother, wondering if he’s gone mad, and instead all she sees is plain fear. “What do you mean? What do you think he’s going to do?”

Aemon doesn’t respond to that, instead, he asks. “Why are you suddenly appearing now? Why are you caring now?”

That takes her by surprise. “Because you’re my brother. Of course I care.”

Aemon snorts. “Doesn’t seem like it. Didn’t seem like it when Drogo was stabbing our brother to death.”

“I…I…I didn’t ask to marry Drogo. I did what I needed to do to survive, what I needed to do to make sure that we survived. That doesn’t mean I liked it one bit.” Dany replies quickly her heart stuttering in her chest. “I didn’t mean to make it seem as if I didn’t care. I…just…I. Just.”

Her brother snorts and turns around. “Stop lying to me sister. You’re in love with that savage, you’re going to bear his child, and then leave me in the dirt.”

Dany moves to stand in front of her brother, and looks up at him, her eyes pleading. “Aemon, please…don’t do this. Don’t do this to us.”

Her brother looks at her in disbelief, and Dany feels as if she is falling apart. “If there was an us once, it seems as if it died, the moment Drogo fucked you.”

She slaps him hard across the face, surprised at her actions, she looks at her brother, and sees his anger simmering. “Please, please don’t.”

“Don’t do what? Don’t state the truth? Why should I lie?” Aemon asks.

“Because it is not the truth!” Dany all but yells. “I don’t love Drogo, Aemon, I’ve never loved Drogo!”

“Then who do you love?” Aemon growls.

“You.” Dany responds.


	14. Snow

**Jon Snow**

Winterfell was quiet now, with so many people having gone south with father and the girls. Jon was not sure what to make of it all, but one thing he did know was that nothing would ever be the same. They were hovering on the brink of something, something dangerous, and its taste was intoxicating. Jon looks at his brother, Robb sits in father’s chair, looking so very pensive, and he asks. “Do you think it was a coincidence that Bran woke up just before the imp came to Winterfell?”

Robb looks up from whatever it was he was reading, and shakes his head. “No. Luwin will say so, but I disagree. I think there is something going on. I agree with mother; it is far too convenient.”

Jon quirks an eyebrow and asks. “Do you truly think the Imp had something to do with the attack on Bran, or even his fall?” He would think he would know if the imp had done something in that regard, from what he remembers the dwarf had not gone on the hunt that day.

Robb shrugs. “I do not know Jon. All I know is that it is quite suspicious that he goes running off to the wall after Bran’s fall and then he comes back. It’s almost as if he’s come to check out Bran and see if our brother remembers anything.”

“But why would he want something done to Bran? What did Bran ever do to him?” Jon asks, still struggling to comprehend the fact that someone had pushed Bran out of the tower, but knowing that Lady Catelyn was not wrong, Bran never fell, never.

Robb sighs. “I don’t know Jon. But I think he might well have seen something he was not supposed to see, and as a result he is suffering for it now.” Jon sees his brother run a hand through his hair, a gesture that has become more and more common for his brother as time has gone on. “Honestly, I do not understand why he always had to go climbing. Why couldn’t he have done something else?”

Jon quirks an eyebrow at his brother and asks. “Do you really need to ask that Robb?”

His brother laughs. “That is true. Still, he should have thought something like this would happen.”

At this the air gets heavy, and Jon takes a cup of water, taking a deep sip of the drink, he then says. “I think we need to be very careful. Tyrion might have gone, but something is coming. That much I can tell you.”

He can tell his brother is curious, he is just grateful that Robb no longer asks how he learns the information he knows. “What did you hear?” is the question Robb asks instead.

Jon shifts slightly, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “I heard the imp paid a visit to one of the girls in the village, you know the girl who served as Lady Catelyn’s maid.”

“What? Why?” Robb asks.

Jon shifts again, playing with the cup of water. “I think it had something to do with Bran’s fall and the piece of hair that Lady Catelyn found in the tower.” The Blond piece of hair that is.

“Do you think the imp thought the girl would know?” Robb asks curious.

“Yes.” Jon responds simply. “I think he thought that the openness that he has seen here would extend to the girl. I don’t think he quite realised that Lady Catelyn was not so foolish as to tell the girl anything at all.”

Robb smiles at that, it had become something of a joke amongst them about just how much they could and could not tell the servants. “That is true. I could go and ask Theon to find out whether the girl talked.”

At this Jon feels his eyebrows raise. “Is Greyjoy sleeping with the girl?”

Jon can tell his brother is trying desperately hard not to laugh by the way he is shaking. “Yes. He most definitely is. I think that’s why mother let the girl go back to the village.”

Jon snorts. “Is there anyone Greyjoy will not sleep with? Speaking of which, where is Greyjoy, I had thought he’d be here?” He has never liked how close Greyjoy is with his brother, but he has long since decided to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself.

Robb merely shrugs. “I asked him to look into something for me.”

Jon knows not to pursue that line of questioning and so instead he asks another question. “When do you think Lady Catelyn will return from the south?”

At this Robb looks quite pensive. “I do not know, truthfully, I would have thought she’d be back home by now, it has been nearly a moon since she left. It would’ve taken her only around two weeks. And unless father has decided to risk allowing her see the girls, I do not know what more she could be doing down south.”

Jon nods in full agreement with his brother. “Do you think father might return home soon?” he’d seen the letters that father had written to Lady Catelyn which had been sent through the special service uncle Benjen had, and they had not been encouraging.

He feels deeply disappointed when he sees Robb shake his head. “I don’t think so Jon. Knowing father, I think he will stay out in King’s Landing, either until King Robert sees sense, or until he dies.”

The thought of father dying before he has the chance to ask him about who his mother is, terrifies him, and so he says. “I hope it does not come to that. Surely King Robert will realise sooner or later that father is better put to use in the north, rather than in some southern shit hole?”

Robb nods. “One would think so, but with the Lannisters ever present, father might be needed to ensure that the other kingdoms at least get something resembling a voice.”

Jon nods in response, not really sure he likes it, but also knowing they need a voice in the south, to prevent what might come.

 


	15. Dangerous

**Prince Aemon Targaryen**

They’d stopped riding for the day, they’d been riding for some five weeks now, he’d lost track, he did not know where they were exactly, nor did he care. Dany had confessed to him, and they’d done something or the other, and they’d done nothing. Now, he was determined to make sure they had something to look forward to. The crown his brother had worn was with the Dothraki cunt, he would get it back, but first, his men needed to become his.

“Tell me Rakharo,” Aemon says in the guttural Dothraki he had learned. “Where is Khal Drogo taking us?”

Rakharo had been assigned as one of his sister’s men, but he was Aemon’s, had always been Aemon’s. now the man takes a moment to speak, and then when he does his information is well received. “He is taking us down toward the never ending desert. Toward where the Sarnori once dwelled.”

Aemon nods and then asks. “Why would he be taking us there? The Sarnori plains have been abandoned for generations.” He thinks he knows exactly why the horsefucker is taking them there, but he waits to see what the man says in response.

“Khal Drogo wishes to deal with issues that have been plaguing him for some time. It seems that he has made up his mind now.” Rakharo responds.

Aemon nods, he does not need to ask what issues the Khal has been dealing with, he knows exactly what those issues are. He looks at Rakharo and then at the men who have come to sit next to the man. “And who are these fine young men, Rakharo?”

At this, the Dothraki man smiles, a savage smile. “These are Barbo, Donnor, and Kublai, they are three of the fiercest fighters in Khal Drogo’s Khalasar who have suffered under the Khal.”

Aemon looks over the three men with an appraising man, Barbo has a braid almost as long as Khal Drogo’s, it touches the floor that is for certain, he is a savage man, someone who Aemon knows chafes at being ruled by someone who he considers less than him. Donnor, a Northman by birth, he is missing an eye, but he too is a fierce fighter and then there is Kublai a man from the lands of the far east, a noted horse rider. Aemon nods at all three and then says to them. “You have been affronted by Khal Drogo, a man who claims to know what is the best for his people, but a man who betrays promises made in blood and money. He is not worthy of your time. What do you say to that?”

A long silence follows the question, before Donnor speaks, his voice harsh. “We do not fight for Khal Drogo and we have never fought for him. He provided us a place to rest our heads, nothing more. We will fight for you, for a price.”

Aemon had expected this, and so he asks. “And what is that price?”

He sees Donnor turn to the other two and speak to them quickly, in the language of the Sarnori, before the man turns back to him and replies. “We want the blood of the men who ride closest to Khal Drogo, and we wish for a place at your table.”

Aemon stares at Donnor for a long moment, seeing what the man is saying, and what he actually means, he looks at the man and then at the other two, then at Rakharo, before eventually speaking. “You wish for a place at my table?” he asks softly.

“Yes, my Prince.” The man responds.

Aemon looks at Rakharo and nods, the man draws his arakh and brings it to Aemon, who then cuts his palm. “Then let us seal this the old way.”  He hands the arakh to first Rakharo, who does as he did, and they seal their palms together, before pulling apart, then to Donnor, then to Barbo then to Kublai, when Kublai is done, he drops the arakh into the fire, and Aemon speaks. “You are my men now, from this day until your last. You will do as I command, and only as I command. Do you understand?”

“We understand.” Comes the reply.

“Good,” Aemon responds. “Now, Khal Drogo intends to send us into the desert to die. I will not die. No, you three shall aid me in finishing this man off.” He looks around and noting the Lord of Bear Island, he calls out. “Jorah!”, the knight comes to stand at his side bowing slightly. “How far away is the village of the lamb people?”

“We shall be there within two weeks, my Prince.” Jorah replies.

“Very well.” Aemon says, waving a hand dismissing the knight. He turns back to the men now sworn to him and says. “In two weeks you shall deal with our enemies, and when that is done the village of the lamb is yours Kublai.” The man nods, his smile a terrifying sight.

“What will you do from there, my Prince?” Donnor asks.

Aemon thinks for a moment, then responds. “I will have my revenge on the Khal, and I shall make him see why it is never a good idea to cross the dragon. The time has come gentlemen for us to rise above those who would keep us on the ground. The time has come for us to fight. We are going to war.”

He can see a mad light in Donnor’s eyes, it is unsettling, but it is a good sort of sign. “What of the Khaleesi?” Rakharo asks, his voice soft so as not to be overheard.

Aemon fixes the man with a cold gaze. “My sister is to be left alone. Her child will not be long in surviving. She will come with us.” The men bow in response, and Aemon dismisses them, once they are gone, Ser Jorah appears just as planned, and Aemon says. “Make sure Khal Drogo’s blood riders are dead before we get to the village of the lamb.”


	16. Crossroads

**Lady Catelyn Stark**

“Lady Catelyn!” Catelyn hears the dwarf calling her name and she cringes internally. She had hoped to get away from the inn before someone could come and find her. She knows that she could simply ignore the imp and keep walking, but then that might well attract far too much attention.

Instead she turns around and says. “Lord Tyrion, I had not thought to see you here.” That much was the truth of course, she had thought she’d not be seeing anyone of note at the Inn of the Kneeling Man.

By this point, there is quite the crowd gathering, speaking behind closed hands, and tankards about what they are witnessing. The Imp fixes his mismatched eyes on her, and replies. “Indeed, I had not thought to stop here. But you see, it is quite the way from Castle Black to King’s Landing, and I had thought to stop for some refreshment before returning to my journey.” A pause follows that, then the dwarf asks. “And what of you my lady? I had thought to see you in Winterfell, and yet it was your son who greeted me.”

A thrum of nervousness shoots through her. “I was visiting my father in Riverrun.” She lies, hoping that Lannister does not catch her in her lie.

Lannister merely smiles. “Ah, a good thing then. I have heard Lord Hoster has been ailing for some time. No doubt a visit from his daughter was what he needed.”

There is something in the imp’s words that she does not like, but she chooses to ignore the feeling for just now and instead asks. “How was your visit to the wall?”

Lannister looks at her with his mismatched eyes, and Catelyn gets the feeling that the imp is trying to analyse her every word and movement with his eyes. It is a very disconcerting feeling. “It was most enlightening. It is good to see that Lord Stark has not forgotten his obligation to a place just on his borders.”

The words are meant to sting and sting they do. “My lord husband was always and has always been a friend to the Watch.” She replies crisply.

The imp smiles a strange smile in response and merely says. “I am sure he does my lady. Though the state of the watch might well belie that.”

Catelyn feels her skin flush at the insult, and she sees Ser Rodrik place a hand on his sword pommel. Deciding to change the topic, she instead asks him. “And how did you find Winterfell? I trust my children were most courteous to you?”

“Oh most definitely. They are good children. Your second son has woken up my lady. He was most sullen that you were not there.” The imp responds.

Catelyn feels a pang in her heart at his words, Bran was always her special boy, and not being there when he woke up, tears a fracture in her heart. “I see.” Is all she can say in response, fighting desperation.

The imp is still staring at her, and Catelyn wants to scream at him, she can feel her heart racing in her chest, memories of what Benjen had told her running through her head, fighting with what Petyr had told her as well. Eventually, the dwarf speaks. “I must admit it was very charitable of you to allow your husband’s bastard to remain in Winterfell after he left. I do not know of many people who would do that.”

The mention of Jon startles her, she thinks quickly as to whether there was anything that had given them away there, and is relieved when nothing springs to mind. “Jon is just a boy, there is nothing wrong with him staying at his home.” She replies.

The imp smiles another mismatched smile at her. “A very interesting stance to take, my lady. I hope you do not find me rude, but I would wonder, how is it that you have such sympathy for the boy, and still love your husband, when the man has never told you who the boy’s mother is.”

Catelyn stiffens. She has feared this moment appearing for so long, and she had prepared for it, but now that it is upon her, she finds that she cannot truly find anything to reply with. Instead she merely says. “What problems I have with my husband are between myself and him, Lord Tyrion. Jon is just a boy, whatever the circumstances of his birth, he is still one of my children. Now if you would excuse me, I must be on my way.” With that she turns and nods to Ser Rodrik, before walking out of the room.

A few moments later, Ser Rodrik asks her. “Do you think he suspects anything my lady?”

Catelyn sighs. “I do not know Ser. I would hope not, for if he does, we are in grave danger.”

She had originally intended to return to her room, and rest for the night, before setting out for Winterfell in the morning, but now that she knows Lannister is here, she is considering leaving now. “Ser Rodrik, how long would it take to saddle our horses and ride out tonight?” she asks.

The knight seems surprised. “I think it would take no more than, half an hour, my lady. Though do you not think it would look suspicious, if we were to leave the inn tonight, after meeting Lannister?”

Catelyn thinks through this, she knows that what Ser Rodrik says is most likely true, but the desire to leave for Winterfell now is strong, stronger than it has ever been, her son is awake, and she worries that the imp might have more than a passing interest in Jon. However, leaving right now, would not be wise. Sighing she says. “You are right of course, Ser. I do think that perhaps leaving at first light tomorrow would be wise.”

Ser Rodrik nods. “Of course my lady.” A pause follows then he says. “I shall see you in the morn then.” And with that he walks off to his own room, leaving Catelyn to stand in the hallway for a moment, before she too ventures to her room.


	17. Blood Of My Blood

****

**Rakharo**

“Now. Do it now.” The command comes in whispered Dothraki from Prince Aemon, and Rakharo nods. Barking a few sharp orders to his men, they move their horses toward those who had sworn themselves mistakenly to a Khal who had forgotten his people. He draws his arakh slowly, allowing it to whistle out, and then he begins the killing. Rakharo knows that there are those who might question the wisdom of what he is doing. Khal Drogo has never lost a battle, his braid is proof enough of that, but he has also broken more promises than he has kept.

Rakharo remembers well the slaughtered villagers, the girls screaming, his own sister, dying in his arms, his mother taken off and sold into slavery. He remembers meeting his mother once more, of seeing her shackled and drawn, her body limp in his hands after he’d killed her. Drogo had done that to his family, revenge had come easily to him. Prince Aemon was a man who remembered things, who remembered who he was. He had sworn an oath long ago, and the Prince had reminded him of it. The arakh cuts through the skins of men not yet prepared for what is to come.

The Khal is somewhere, drinking, he knows that Prince Aemon wants the honour of having him to himself, and so Rakharo continues swinging his arakh leading the other horse riders away from the Prince. The Prince who will give him his revenge, and a chance to atone for past wrongs. The Prince is a good man, and Rakharo is more than glad to take part in this plan. He swings, and bones crunch under his blade, he has always known he was a good fighter, he had trained long and hard for this moment. Waiting, praying for the day someone would come to allow him to exact his revenge. The Prince was that person, and though the prince was someone who could turn when the need arose, he was a man who remembered his friends. Rakharo swings his blade laughing as Dothraki bloodriders come at him trying desperately to outdo him, they fall to his blade and he laughs even more.

He feels a fist smash into him, and he sees a man he knows only as Drogo’s brother, most likely a half-brother, standing there before him. The man is tall, and not someone who would fight on horse-back. He comes at Rakharo hard, and Rakharo soon finds his arakh being knocked out of his hand, his horse sent splattering to the ground. He staggers up, and begins swinging his own fists. One hit, the man rolls, another hit, the man staggers, then picks himself up and swings at him. Rakharo blocks one blow, takes another blow, and then another. He feels as though he is being cut in half, but still he goes on. He had learned how to fight like this long ago. He keeps himself calm, eases his breathing, swinging once more. He feels his hands come back bleeding, but onward he goes. One more hit and then another, he falls down to the ground, but picks himself back up once more. He will not falter now.

The image of his mother, screaming for clemency, flits into his mind, and that fills him with a righteous anger. Drogo is the one who broke their family, Drogo is the one who broke his mother. His mother who was so strong, who was the one who taught him who he was. Drogo tried to make him forget, as he forgot. Prince Aemon reminded him of whom he was, of where he came from. Prince Aemon spoke Dothraki, not the bastard way Drogo spoke it, but the way it was supposed to be spoken. Prince Aemon was the one the crones spoke of, of that Rakharo was convinced. The brute before him hits him, his eyes are swelling up now, but that does not matter, he hits back harder, faster, using his lithe build to dig in. The brute sways and then falls, he grunts slightly at the pain in his hands. He staggers, picks up his arakh and then moves on.

The Prince is within sight, as is Barbo, and Kublai, they defend the Prince with grace and savageness, Ser Jorah the Andal is with the Princess, protecting her, to ensure she does not escape.  His arakh is slick with blood, it runs red onto the ground, but that does not matter, he moves forward, stepping over bodies, and all other sorts of things, keeping one eye on the Prince as he moves forward, and as enemies come toward him, Rakharo cuts them down, taking savage pleasure in removing them. Blows are rained down on him, but he cares not for them, he simply keeps moving. His arms ache, and he is convinced one of them might be going dead, but he keeps moving determined to not let that stop him. Khal Drogo has emerged now, Rakharo can tell because of the number of men spilling forth from the tents and the ground. They come their blood up, Rakharo does not know if they can stop them. He hopes so, he wants to be able to claim a life, the closest he can come to the Khal.

Blows come hard and fast now, as men from the Khal’s side come at him, he blocks most of them, but those he cannot block leave sharp blows on his chest and head, making him shake and shiver. Blood pours down his face and his chest, from open wounds. He moves forward, determined to stop from falling. He keeps going, he cuts down two men, one of them no older than he was when he first killed a man. He keeps going. One more man dies, another falls and never gets up. He keeps moving, onward, ever onward, until the fighting stops suddenly. A roar goes up, he turns through bloodied eyes and sees the Prince, glimmering in armour, holding up the head of the Khal, his voice commanding. “Your Khal is dead. Bend to me and live, or keep fighting and die. You have two choices.” Rakharo sways slightly but he watches all the same as many of the former Khalasar get down onto their knees, some fall and never rise, but others soon take up the chant. Rakharo leading.


	18. Quietness

**Benjen Stark**

The streets were empty, this late at night no one but the cutthroats and the hagglers were left awake in King’s Landing. Benjen had found long ago that he preferred operating during this time. He could do anything, say anything, and none would dare to look for the bodies come morning, they would not know where to look. His contact lived within one of the hovels in this street, and yet she heard everything that happened, for soldiers talked to her, as always. Benjen looks at Lynara and smiles. “You look beautiful as always, my lady.” She did as well, with her long brown hair, heart shaped face and green eyes.

Lynara smiles. “And you look as if you need to have shave, my lord. Now enough of these courtesies, you have come for the information I have to offer you, have you not?”

Benjen nods. “As always my lady you are right.” He pauses, allowing himself time to drink in her curves and her face, they had been lovers once, he had thought to marry her once upon a time, but something had changed, and now they were friends and confidants. “So tell me, what have you heard?” he eventually asks.

Lynara looks around the hallway, before beckoning him to her room, behind shelves and many other things, once they sit in her room, she speaks. “The Lannisters are arming their men to the teeth.”

“The Lannisters, always prepare their men for military matters. This is nothing new.” Benjen says dismissively, he should know better by now.

“No, you do not understand Benjen. They are arming them with crossbows, daggers, and swords. It is almost as if they are preparing for some sort of coup.” Lynara responds.

That does get his attention, and he fixes Lynara with a level gaze. “How many weapons are they arming themselves with?”

Lynara goes quiet for a moment, a she thinks through what she has heard, and then she responds. “Roughly around three hundred, which is twice as many as they are allowed during peace time.”

Benjen snorts. “When have the Lannisters ever cared about that? They make their own laws.” He pauses, thinking over this information, wondering exactly how he can convince Ned to act on this without giving things away. “Do you know who is ordering this?”

“The only person who would be mad enough to try and do such a thing. The Queen.” Lynara responds, scorn in her voice, she had never liked the Queen, not since that day in the ball room.

Benjen sighs. “Of course. No doubt she thinks that with Ned poking around into Jon Arryn’s death, he will discover something or the other that she does not want him to.”

“I had thought you’d warned your brother about poking around too openly.” Lynara asks.

“I have.” Benjen responds, his frustration coming through. “But my brother is of the opinion that he is only doing honest work. He has yet to figure out that such a thing does not exist in King’s Landing.”

“What will you do, Benjen?” Lynara asks, and Benjen can hear the fear within her voice, he takes her hand.

“I will do what I need to do to ensure my fool of a brother does not get himself killed. But first I must know, what else are the lions doing?” Benjen responds, the thought of any of those golden haired shits trying to lay hand on Lynara drawing anger from him.

As if she can sense his anger, Lynara places their joined hands on her cheek and whispers. “The Queen intends to use Lancel Lannister to remove the King.”

“She wants to use one of his own squires against him? How?” Benjen asks, not for the first time, marvelling at the audacity of the lions.

“I am not sure yet, but I know it is going to happen very soon. The Queen is getting nervous.” Lynara responds.

Benjen nods. “Rightly so, she has done far too much damage to herself and her family to last long once Robert is gone.” He thinks of another boy he knows, and how that child is fairing, he hopes it will not come to war once Robert dies, but he does not know if Cersei will willingly give up power even if meant protecting her children.

“Baelish has been moving.” Lynara says, breaking the silence.

Benjen looks at her and asks. “Where has he been going?”

“To his brothels mostly, but also to the parts of the city that not even you would want to venture to. It seems your conversation with Lady Catelyn was a spanner in his plans.” Lynara says.

“What was he intending?” Benjen asks.

“That she meet Lord Tyrion in an inn, and take him from there to the Eyrie it seems.” Lynara responds. “And as you know, Lord Tyrion arrived back in King’s Landing two days ago.”

Benjen swears. “The bastard wants war. Does he truly hate my family as much as that?”

Lynara moves closer to him and whispers. “I think it is more that he wants Lady Catelyn to himself. Or if not her, then the Lady Sansa.”

Benjen pulls his hand from Lynara’s and curls it into a fist. “I should gut the man for the pig he is.”

Lynara rests her hand over his then and pulls it close. “But you cannot. He is protected by the Queen, even if she does not like him. Make a move on him now, and you will bring war. That is not what you want now, is it?”

Benjen kisses her hand. “No you are right. I just wish I knew why the man was doing what he was doing, and how he goes about his work without someone figuring this out?”

Lynara nods. “I know Benjen, and I think I know someone who could help you with that.”

Benjen looks at her curiously. “If he wanted to, he’d have done so already.”

“Ah, but now that I have asked him, he will.” Lynara responds, and Benjen sighs, he supposes it is not a bad thing.


	19. Hatching Fire

****

**Princess Daenerys Targaryen**

The flames licked at Drogo’s body, reducing him slowly to ash. There were screams echoing from the pyre as well, the maegi, whose name she could not remember, was burning as well. Her brother had decided to sacrifice the woman for daring to try to bring back her child. She’d miscarried Rhaego after her husband’s death, but she felt nothing for the child now, she had cried and cried, but now she was simply numb. The screams echoed in the air, and to filter them out, Dany turns to her brother and asks. “Why did you do it?”

Her twin does not need to ask what she means, instead he simply replies. “He was going to kill us all. He was going to lead us into the darkness, wait for you to give birth, then he was going to kill us. I could not let that happen.”

Dany knows that perhaps she should protest this line of reasoning, and claim that Drogo was not going to do anything of the sort, but the thing is, she knows better. She knows her husband was planning on seeing off her brother at some point. Just as he had done Viserys. And that was a thought she could not bear, she loved Aemon, loved him like she loved no one else, and so she had acted. And now her husband is dead, and her twin rules over his Khalasar. “What now?” she asks instead.

Her brother keeps looking at the flames, his thoughts hidden behind shadowed eyes. “Now we plan and we move forward. We have horse riders, but we need ships.”

“Where will we get ships from? Will we go to Volantis?” Dany asks, something in her telling her that they should go to Volantis, that they will find what they need there.

Her brother shakes his head, and she feels a slight tinge of disappointment. “No, we shall not be going there. Not yet anyway. There is somewhere else we can go, where we can get one of the best fighting forces the world has ever seen.”

Dany quirks an eyebrow at that, she had not thought there was a fighting force that could rival the Golden Company and they had rejected their brother. “Where is this?” she finds herself asking.

“Astapor.” Her brother states. “We must travel through wastelands and through passes of darkness to get there, but we shall get there. The Unsullied are some of the finest fighters this world has ever seen, and they obey without question.”

Dany nods, and then looking around at the Khalasar and how they all seem quite so fractured, she asks. “What will you do about those of Khal Drogo’s bloodriders who refuse to accept you as their new leader?” she finds herself worrying now, she does not think much of the Dothraki, but they are a fierce people.

Her brother shrugs. “Those who will not bend, will be killed.”

Dany nods, and silence falls between them for a time. She watches the flames lick at her husband’s body, she feels as though she should feel something, something like guilt, it is because of her that her brother felt the need to act, that someone has lost their life. But she finds that she cannot be bothered enough to care. Drogo was many things, he was kind to her, but he was also someone who’d have killed her twin, and she learned long ago, that family was more important than anything else. She takes her brother’s hand in hers and whispers. “I am sorry.”

Her brother says nothing, he merely nods his acknowledgement of her statement, before he turns and looks at Ser Jorah and says. “Bring the eggs.”

Dany looks at her brother curiously, as Ser Jorah brings the chest with the three eggs inside it. “What are you doing?” she finds herself asking.

Her brother looks at her briefly, then looks back at the flames, before responding. “There is a story that states, that when the first dragons were hatched, the man of the flames and his wife, stood in the fourteen flames of Valyria, and brought the dragons screaming to life. They had found the eggs underneath the mountains, and knew not what to do with them, until one day the man brought his wife and the eggs into the flames. When they emerged from the flames they had twelve dragons and they were Gods.”

Dany looks at her brother, then at the pyre that crackles with flame and light. “You want us to walk into the flames? But we are not married.” It sounds like a stupid excuse, and it is, but the thought of walking into the flames terrifies her.

Her brother kisses their joined hands and says simply. “We are as good as married sister. Now follow me and do not hesitate.” Dany watches speechless, as her brother turns and picks up the black as night egg, and then gestures for her to do the same. Hesitantly, she picks up the eggs with green and white swirls, and follows him toward the pyre.  Her brother stops before the fire and says. “Do not feel afraid Dany, I shall be right at your side.” Then her brother walks into the flames, Dany watches him disappear into the haze, before deciding to follow him.

The flames prick at her skin, and she feels as if she might suffocate underneath the fumes hitting her nose and mouth. But somehow she survives, she feels something cracking, but she cannot see what it is, she thinks it might be the eggs, but she does not know. The heat continues prickling at her, eating away at her defences, she feels as if she wants to scream, but eventually, the heat becomes accustomed to her and she it, and she settles down. When the wind comes, the flames die, and there she finds herself with two dragons suckling at her breast, whilst a black beast roars on her brother’s shoulder.

 


	20. Bloop

****

**Benjen Stark**

“Now that we know that the girl is with child, we need to plan accordingly. Her husband will need to be dealt with.” Benjen states, wiping his chin of food stains.

“I agree, though, the eunuch has sent out his men to do the deed. Perhaps they will do the deed for us.” Renly responds.

Benjen snorts. “Do you truly believe that? Come now Renly, we both know that Varys’s men are nothing more than hired knives, meant to lure the King into a false sense of security. They will do nothing.”

He can tell his friend does not quite want to admit it, but still does. “That is true, but how are we supposed to explain what it is we are doing, without it looking as if we are undermining him? You know what Robert is like.”

Benjen nods, he only wishes Ned could agree with that, it seems his brother is still in denial about the King. “I have men in place in Essos who could track them down and deal with them. Deal with the baby, and then the boys, and bring the girl over here.”

Renly seems uncertain about this. “Do you think this is wise? After all the boy is not here, and we do not know whether or not he will come south.”

“Unless we do something about it, nothing will happen. We have waited for far too long, for us not to do something about it. We cannot allow this to go on, we must act.” Benjen responds adamantly.

“And what if the boy is not ready? What if he himself, decides to thwart the plan.” Renly questions.

“He will not question it, he has wanted to do something for himself, his entire life. He will not deny himself this opportunity.” Benjen states.

Renly seems to be considering his options and then he nods. “Very well. Do what you need to do Benjen. I will need to speak with the Tyrells.”

Interested, Benjen leans in and asks. “Tell me Renly, where have you sent off your toy to? He has not been seen around the court for some months now. One might think you had had an argument.”

At this, Renly Baratheon laughs. “Oh, I do not think you’d want to know where he’s gone. Nonetheless he has gone away on some important business for the crown. I do know that the Tyrells have taken some convincing to accept the changes in the plan.”

“And they will muster their armies and bring them home to fight, when the time comes?” Benjen asks.

Renly nods. “I believe so yes. I believe that they are determined to overthrow the Lannisters at court, and as such are seeing this as their one chance.”

Benjen nods. “Good. We shall need them and the Redwynes in order to fill the gap that will come up once the lions are gone.” Benjen pauses for a moment and then asks. “Speaking of which, what is happening with the City Watch, you are the master of laws, and yet Baelish continues to use them for his own games.”

At this, Renly shifts slightly, uncomfortably. “Our arrangement is slowly coming to term.”

Benjen looks at him curiously. “And what arrangement is this?”

Renly shakes his head, winking as he does so. “Ah, now, now Benjen, I cannot tell you that, that would give away too much. I am sure there are many things that you have planned, that you are not telling me.”

Benjen does not say anything in response to that, as he knows it is true, instead he says. “And do you think that the members of the Watch under Littlefinger’s pay are really yours? The man has a way with words, and with coin.”

Renly looks at him with that same smug smile, that Benjen has come to love, and his response is one of confidence. “Littlefinger has money that is true, and yet I am the one who has noble blood, and the one who is of royal blood. Littlefinger is nothing in the grand scheme of things. They will side with the man who they will need, not the man who pays them.”

Benjen tilts his head and asks. “And you are certain of this? This is not just some sort of over exaggeration on your part, considering as it is, you own nothing but the few Gold Cloaks you claim are your allies.”

He can tell the prodding of his friend, he can tell is starting to anger Renly, and yet there is a hint of cheekiness in his friend’s eyes as well, when he replies. “The name has the power here my good Ser. After all, a Baratheon sits the throne, not Baelish, a Baratheon holds the law in his hands, Baelish simply controls the purse strings, and yet, one word from me, and his head is on a spike.”

Benjen looks at the man before him, and smirks. “Quite the speech. Now tell me, how exactly do you plan on dealing with Baelish, when the time comes.”

At this, Renly seems hesitant to respond, but eventually, he cracks under the pressure and speaks. “With the temptation of the people he wants the most.”

Benjen stands up then, and throws Renly against the wall. “We said we’d leave them out of this Renly. Now do not make me remind you why we said that.”

Renly looks at him pressed up against the wall, a slight grimace on his face. “Sometimes things need to be offered, that does not mean that it would actually be done. I am not such a fool as that Benjen.”

Benjen tightens his hold over Renly for a brief moment, then he replies. “Make sure that it does not come to that. Otherwise, we shall have trouble, you and I.”

Renly nods. “Of course. I would not dream of doing anything to hurt our alliance, nor our friendship.”

Benjen sighs, then lets go of Renly, saying as he does so. “I will hold you to that, Renly. We are running out of time, and my patience is thinning.”


	21. Dragons, Mother Of Dragons

**Princess Daenerys Targaryen**

She had two dragons that were constantly attached to her, it was an odd experience, an odd feeling, knowing that she was the mother of someone, something rather. She had been the mother of someone, but that someone had died. The dragons were growing larger with every passing day, there were two for her, Rhaegal, pale and white, with Viserion being green and bronze. Her brother Aemon, had the black dragon, with its fiery red eyes, whom he had named Belgabad, after the biggest dragon to have ever lived. Things were changing, and it was that, that had prompted her and her brother to seek out Ser Jorah Mormont.

“How did the dragons hatch?” that is the question she asks, looking at her brother, and the knight from Bear Island. Her brother’s sworn swords near them.

The knight seems to consider the question for a moment, and then he responds. “The Blood of the Dragon and a sacrifice of someone important is what led to them reawakening I believe, my Princess.”

Dany can tell that Aemon wants to refute the mere suggestion that Drogo was ever anything important, but he does not, instead he merely nods for her to keep speaking, and so she does. “But, how is that enough to bring them back? We know from you, and from the stories, that this was attempted long before, when the last dragon died, and nothing happened. So then why did it happen now?”

At this, the knight looks at a loss for words, and so he merely shrugs. “As to that, I could not tell you, my Princess,” Ser Jorah seems as though he does not know what else to say, then he simply says. “I believe what happened, was meant to happen, that is all I can say.”

Dany is not completely satisfied with the answer, and she can tell by the way Aemon’s shoulders are slanted, that he is not either, but instead of pursuing that line of thinking she asks. “Do you think that it will make it easier for us to gain supporters now then, Ser Jorah?”

The knight hesitates for a moment, seemingly uncertain over whether his response would be classified as insulting them, or not, but eventually he responds. “I believe so yes, my Princess. I think that now the word gets out over your dragons, the people will come. You brought back creatures who have been dead for centuries, people will believe you to be Gods. And the people always wish to fight for the Gods.”

Dany likes those words, and she feels Rhaegal and Viserion purr at them as well, her brother however, seems unimpressed. “That means nothing, if half the Khalasar leaves before we even get to Astapor.” Dany grimaces, after Drogo’s death, and the death of her son, the Khalasar had fragmented, even with the birth of the dragons, they had not seemed content to follow her, or her brother, even when half of them were killed for their treason, some still left, and Dany knows that has greatly angered her brother.

Ser Jorah seems to consider her brother briefly for a moment, before he replies. “Those Dothraki who left, will not last for very long. They are the ones who lack common sense. They shall fade into the abyss of obscurity and die there.”

Dany believes the knight, but she knows her brother will not be pacified until at least one of them is dead, that is why she knows he turns to Rakharo and says. “Bring me the head of one of those fools, and bring me the woman he has taken as his slut.” The man nods and hastens away, Dany keeps her voice shut regarding the last part of that, she knows she has nothing to complain about, given her marriage to Drogo, and yet something about that still irks her.

Trying to take her mind off of those troubling thoughts, she instead, asks her brother. “What will you do when you get to Astapor? Where will you get the money to pay for the Unsullied? We do not have enough.”

At this, her brother merely smiles. “The wise man who housed us gave our brother money for ventures such as this.”

Dany hesitates then, she knows her brother does not trust the magister, but this sudden willingness to work with what he gave, and the reasoning behind it, is something she does not feel comfortable with. “Are you sure that is wise? Do you really want to be in the man’s debt?”

She sees a look pass between her brother and Ser Jorah, and next thing she knows, Ser Jorah is speaking. “The magister and Prince Aemon have come to an understanding regarding this money. There shall be no debt, no repayment.”

Dany stares at her brother, seeing how these words bring a glint to his eye, she is not really sure she wants to know what that means, but she finds herself asking. “What does that mean?”

Aemon merely sighs. “It means that I have shown the man who is in charge here, and it most definitely, is not him.” A moment passes, then another, where she and her brother stare at one another, before her brother states. “Ser Jorah you may leave us now.” The knight nods and bows, before turning and leaving, once he has gone, her brother looks back at her and whispers. “You do not need to look so dismayed sister, the fat man, is still alive.”

Dany is taken aback by the words, and finds herself replying. “I do not know why you feel so compelled to act in a manner that our own brother would find slightly repugnant. The Magister is not a man you threaten; we both know that.”

Aemon’s face tightens at the mention of their deceased brother, that is a breach that has not yet been fixed between them, and Dany is not sure that it ever will be. His voice is no louder than a whisper, when he replies. “I know what I am doing Dany. The Magister needed to be reminded who was in charge here.”

Dany sighs, not wanting them to fight. “Okay, if you say so, Aemon.” She leans forward then, and presses a kiss to her brother’s lips, she feels relieved when he does not pull away.


	22. Idiocy

**Lord Eddard Stark**

“I am telling you Ned, if you go down this route, the kingdoms will burn. That is not what we had planned.” Benjen says, and Ned feels anger grow through him.

Ned looks at his brother, and says. “I do not think you understand, Benjen, what I have told you is the truth.”

Benjen looks at him as if he has grown a second head. “You understand what this is Ned? This is nonsense, where is your proof, of any of this? You claim that the King’s children, are actually the children of the Queen and her brother? But where is your proof.”

Ned sighs. “Look at them, they are blond of hair and green of eye, whilst all of Robert’s children are black of hair and blue of eye. Every Baratheon child known to exist has that colouring. It is suspicious is it not?”

“And most of your children have Cat’s colouring, are you going to tell me that her brother is their father?” Benjen quips.

Ned tenses. “No, because I know I am their father, and they have some of our family look in them. There is nothing of the King, in his supposed children.”

Ned can tell his brother is getting frustrated with him, and he is getting frustrated with his brother also, how can Benjen not see it? “Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon were looking into this, Ben. They found something, clearly they found something. Otherwise why would they have gone looking into Gendry and looking through the lineage of the Baratheons?”

“Because they were curious. I admit, children not looking like their parents is curious, but I do not think is not enough to go through with these accusations. You do that, you are going down a very dangerous path.” Benjen responds.

Ned sighs. “What more proof could you want Ben? There is a trail there for anyone who wants to look at it. Jon Arryn died for a reason, furthermore, why do you think that Stannis Baratheon has not responded to anything I have sent? Because he is scared of what might come around.” He pauses for a moment, then tentatively says. “It could also help our own cause.”

At this, Ned sees his brother stiffen. “You would use this excuse, this sham as a chance to bring him here?”

“Yes. If it is a chance, then I will take it. We have waited for a long time, and it is only right that, should this come to light, that we bring him here. Robert deserves to know.” Ned says.

Benjen runs a hand through his hair, then responds. “You are being naïve Ned. The Lannisters, have a vice like grip over the court, they have eyes everywhere, do something like this, you will be finished.”

“Why? I have brought my own men here with me, we have enough support to do some serious damage. I will need you to make arrangements over this.” Ned states, knowing that his brother will likely protest.

As expected, Benjen stares at him grimly. “You would make use of my services, for something that would likely go south, the moment you open your mouth? Do you have any idea, how stupid you are?”

“Watch yourself, brother, I am still your liege lord.” Ned growls warningly.

“And yet, you are not acting like it. Do you have any idea how ridiculous what you are suggesting is? You are accusing the Queen and her brother of treason yet have nothing of note to prove this accusation. Ned, you understand this will come back to bite us harder than anything father planned, ever did. You have no plan, no back up, nothing. What do you expect to happen? That Robert will just accept what you say without question?” Benjen questions.

Ned hesitates here, he knows that some of what Benjen has said is true, Robert is not the man he once was, the incident at Ruby Ford proved that, and yet, and yet, he holds out hope. He takes a breath then responds. “I will not know unless I try. I must prevent an injustice being done. Allowing the treason of the Queen to stand would not be doing that.”

Benjen seems unimpressed by his reasoning, and Ned feels a slither of annoyance at that. Benjen might have spent a long time in the capital, but Ned is still the older sibling, he is the one who cleaned up the mess after Harrenhal, who cleaned Brandon up after his fights with various northern nobles, he has always done as he was told, or asked to. And now? Now he is asking for something simple from his brother, he gets this. He feels his anger rising, and steals himself to it, forces himself to say once more. “I will ask you this once, brother. Before I make any move, I want you to take the girls out of King’s Landing. Take them from here, and move for Winterfell.”

“And what about you? How long do you think you could remain within King’s Landing after you do what you plan on doing?” his brother asks, sounding completely resigned.

Ned sighs. “I will be fine. Robert will work with me once he knows the true implications of what I tell him. Baelish might not be trustworthy, but if what you have told me is right, he will have no choice but to support me. Varys as well.”

His brother does not look convinced, indeed if his words are indication, he most definitely is not. “Varys and Baelish, what has our world come to, if those are the two people you must rely on to bring you great support. I am telling you Ned, use Renly, use him and you will not be disappointed.”

Ned considers his brother’s words, and though he knows Benjen likes Renly, might even love him, he does not. There is something about the youngest Baratheon that does not sit well with him. So instead of responding directly to his brother’s plea, he merely says. “Take the girls tonight, and go.” He breathes a sigh of relief when his brother nods.


	23. Lovers Of The Night

****

**Prince Aemon Targaryen**

The dragons purred at night, they were growing quickly, as the heat of the desert fed into their primal nature. It was an honour getting to see them grow, that the black dragon, the biggest one of the three was his, was brilliant as well, they were young yet though, perhaps not quite ready for battle, certainly not for an invasion. Aemon looks at his sister as she stares at the dragons in wonder, and finds himself whispering. “You’re beautiful.”

His sister turns and blushes. “Thank you.” She replies.

Aemon smiles. “You know, I think we might get a chance to get home sooner, than we had first thought.” It is something he has been considering for some time, and now, he feels as if it might be the right time to voice it.

Daenerys looks intrigued by his words, for she asks. “What do you mean? Without needing to go to Astapor?”

Aemon hesitates, he knows his sister does not quite like the thought of going to Astapor, a place where there are slaves and all sort of other things, and truth be told, neither does he, but it needs to be done. “No, we needs must still go there.” He sees the frown on her face, and then quickly says. “But the dragons, they are our ticket away from here.”

“How?” his sister asks tilting her head.

“Three dragons, they are the only three dragons in existence, we are the ones who brought them back to this world. You see what that means? We are as good as Gods, to everyone. The Dothraki see it, the others who have come with us since, see it as well. The Westerosi bowed to Aegon the Conqueror with his dragons, and they treated him as a God. They will do the same to us, once we give them reason to.” Aemon responds enthusiastically.

“What do you mean?” his sister asks.

Aemon pauses, considering what to say here, some of the things that have been arranged are not completely good things, and he does not want his sister to think less of him for them, but she does need to know the truth. In order for the breach between them to heal. “The magister has his allies in Westeros, they are working to make the climate in Westeros more conducive to our return.”

“What do you mean by that?” Daenerys asks.

“What I mean is that right now, Westeros is at peace, we cannot attack it now, we would be destroyed.” Aemon points out.

“But I thought there were people waiting to rise for us?” Dany asks.

Aemon shakes his head. “Yes, there are people waiting for us to return, but they would not rise up unless they had true reason to. People are fickle things; they will not rise unless they think that there are things they can get out of it. Chaos, will bring that.”

“So what will the chaos look like? Is that what we really want? Creating chaos, in order to get something done?” Dany asks.

Aemon sighs. “It is not a nice thing to think on, but it is necessary. The people will suffer in the short term, but in the long run, they will prosper under us. They will prosper under us, in a way that they could never do under the Baratheons.”

Dany looks at him curiously. “Do you think that truly?”

Aemon nods. “Yes, I believe it. Viserys believed it as well, even though he was very misguided in his approach. We must make moves now, in the right approach, in the right way.” He moves toward Dany, and tilts her chin up. “Tell me Dany, what do you know about the ladies who serve you?”

His sister looks at him questioningly. “They were given to me by Drogo, to serve as my ladies in waiting, to provide me with a way of looking into the Dothraki way of life. Why?”

Aemon hesitates for a moment, if he is to explain this properly, he needs to do it with some thought. “They were given to you by Khal Drogo, but they were recommended to him by someone else. A man who the Khal listens to very often. A man named Darkhan. That man is the man who controls where the Dothraki go, and what they do. Some of the Dothraki are heading off to meet with the man, and as such, everything you talk about with the girls, goes back to him.”

“What does that mean?” Dany asks.

“It means that we are being spied on, it means that even though the Dothraki are idiots, they have a man who will use their information against us. It means no one can be trusted amongst your girls.” Aemon explains.

“So are we to keep our discussions and information, completely to ourselves?” Dany asks, sounding worried.

“Yes. We cannot trust anyone, other than each other. We are the last of the old blood, we must regain what was taken from us, and we must ensure that we do not allow anyone to tear us apart.” Aemon responds.

Dany nods, and then leans up and kisses him briefly, before pulling away and whispering. “What of those who our brother considered enemies? Will we take them down, or work with them?”

Aemon hesitates for a second, unsure of how to respond to the question, it is an issue that has kept him up at night, late into the night, until the sun rises, and now, now, he feels as though he is unsure of where the sky is, and where the night begins. “I think that we must make sure that we have them in hand. We must make them see that the Baratheons are the ones who have brought the seven kingdoms to their knees. We must bring them back to the real path.”

“And if they do not realise this?” Dany asks.

Aemon looks at his sister, really looks at her, then responds. “We shall remove them from existence.”

 

 

 


	24. Escape From The City

**Benjen Stark**

They had snuck out at night, taking the streets and sideways that had become his go to, during his years in King’s Landing. Arya had been more than happy to leave, trailing behind him as if she had been waiting for this moment her entire life, Sansa, Sansa was loath to leave, she had protested and cried, and eventually, Benjen had had to give her milk of the poppy to get her to sleep and shut up. They had sneaked out in the dead of night, riding as hard and as quickly as they could, twenty good men with them, as well as Syrio Forel, the man who Benjen had recommended to Ned to teach Arya the water dance. Now as they rode through the shadows, he had a chance to call a halt.

“Why are we stopping?” Arya asks, even inquisitive.

Benjen looks at his niece, her hair short and dirty, she looks a little like Lyanna, and that thought brings a pang to his chest. “The horses need to rest, and so do we. We have been out here for nearly a week. Come now, we need to get ready.” He moves off of his horse and helps his niece dismount, then moves to help Sansa, she silently accepts his help.

“Where are we?” Arya asks, looking around inquisitively.

Benjen looks round and then says. “Near Darry lands, we should be heading off in around twenty minutes.”

 “Twenty minutes?” Sansa asks surprised. “How are we supposed to get anything done in twenty minutes.”

Benjen sighs, Sansa has never quite gotten around the fact that they had to leave, and right now, it is beginning to frustrate him. “Have a drink of water, freshen up, then get ready to move again. Harwin, Hull, come with me.” With that he moves toward the stream, as he stands there, he looks out, and sees the place where his sister and Rhaegar Targaryen first crossed paths, a long, long time ago, and all the chaos that came from that meeting. When he sees Harwin standing near his shoulder, he turns round. “We must keep moving, if Ned has done as I think he has, he will not be joining us. We must make for Riverrun.”

“But Lord Stark had instructed us to take the girls to Winterfell, master Benjen.” Harwin protests.

Benjen sighs. “Come now Harwin, we both know there is too much at stake to allow the girls to ride straight back to Winterfell. Walder Frey is still alive, and as such the Lannisters will know the moment they head toward the Twins. Mallister is unreliable right now. Riverrun is the safest place for them.”

He can tell that both Harwin and Hull are not happy with this planned change, and not for the first time, he finds himself wondering how his brother has managed to keep the north running with such rigid and inflexible thinking. Eventually, Hull is the one who speaks. “Very well Master Benjen, Riverrun is where we shall go. Though, what of the direwolves? They will be an obvious give away.”

“The wolves know what is needed of them, when they need to leave, they will leave.” Benjen responds.

“What of the Braavosi?” Harwin asks. “He will stick out as well, furthermore, we do not know if we can trust him.”

Benjen finds himself growing even more frustrated, he had thought the prejudices of the south were bad, but he is reminded just how bad his fellow northmen can be as well. “I was the one who recommend Syrio Forel to my brother, he is trust worthy, furthermore, he is one of the few people that will be able to keep Arya quiet for the time being. So he shall remain.” Again, he can tell that Harwin and Hull are not comfortable with this, and he finds himself wondering just how his brother managed to employ such foolish people. Deciding that he has had enough conversation with them, he turns back around, and calls out to his nieces. “Arya, Sansa, come here.” His two nieces walk over, Arya, bouncing around with uncontained energy, Sansa listlessly, and with some restraint. Once they come over to him, he turns and points to the buildings across the stream. “Over there, is where one of the greatest events in recent history happened. That is where your grandfather unhorsed Lord Tywin in a joust.” It is a lie, but one that holds a grain of truth.

“They held a tourney here?” Arya asks with wonder. “But this place is barren.”

Benjen laughs, his niece has quite the blunt tongue to her, just like Lyanna. “There was more to it than what you now see. It was quite a beautiful place, many people had come to attend the tourney, and all cheered when Tywin Lannister was unhorsed. He was never as popular in the Riverlands.”

“So what happened afterwards?” Arya asks curiously.

Before Benjen can respond however, Sansa speaks, her tone blunt and aggravating. “Nothing, it was a tourney, nothing else would have happened.”

Benjen feels himself tighten in anger at Sansa’s words, he does not understand why she is like this, does she not understand that by taking her away from King’s Landing and Joffrey, they’ve spared her a world of pain. Once again, he finds himself wondering how his nieces could be so naïve. “No Sansa,” he finds himself replying. “After the knocking off of Tywin Lannister, the King cheered, and the lords cheered, and Tywin Lannister pouted and swore to get revenge.”

“Why would he want to get revenge?” Arya asks.

“Because Tywin Lannister is a man who does not like bearing insults. He is a man who has a very small threshold for insults, or for jests made at his expense.” Benjen responds sagely.

“I do not like the sound of him.” Arya responds.

Benjen ruffles his niece’s hair and says. “You are right not to. The Lannisters are nothing but snakes.” Sansa huffs at that, and Benjen merely glares at her, wondering not for the first time, how she could be so naïve.


	25. Confessions

**Lord Eddard Stark**

The godswood of King’s Landing was dark and gloomy, but there was a lack of the peacefulness, that could be found in Winterfell. He was just relieved that the girls were out of the capital, even if Sansa wasn’t speaking to him right now. The Queen was stood before, the heart tree, looking ominous and regal, as he came to stand before her. “Your Grace.” Ned says nodding his head.

“Lord Stark,” the Queen responds. “What is the meaning of this meeting?”

Ned takes a deep breath, thinking over what Benjen had said, but he knows this is the right course of action, he would not want something like the sack happening to her children. “I have come to give you a chance to confess to your sins.”

The Queen quirks her head to the side and asks. “And what sins might you be speaking of Lord Stark? I have not committed any.”

The audacity of the woman makes him grit his teeth in frustration. “Every Baratheon child since the day of Orys Baratheon has had black hair and blue eyes. Every bastard that the King has had, have had black hair and blue eyes, and yet your children do not.”

The Queen laughs slightly. “And have you met many of the King’s bastards, Lord Stark?”

Ned nods. “I have met three of them, Your Grace, and they have got more Baratheon features and characteristics compared to your children. And why is that?”

The Queen snorts. “And tell me Lord Stark, do your children all look like you? Or do they favour your wife more?”

“My daughter Arya looks like me, Your Grace, and my other children look like me, but…” Ned replies.

“Precisely, so are you going to tell me that your goodbrother, Edmure Tully, is the father of your children?” the Queen interjects.

“No, of course not.” Ned responds, angrily. “I remember the conception of my children, and their births. Can the King say the same?”

“No, though can the King remember anything of anything?” the Queen responds. “Now before you say anything else, ask yourself this, Lord Stark, what comes from presenting this evidence to anyone? What do you gain?”

“Justice, the truth.” Ned replies. “You have committed a grievous treason, and as such it must be brought before the King, for you to face up for what you have done.”

“And say that this happens, Lord Stark, what happens then?” the Queen asks.

“Then the rightful heir can be revealed, and as such the King and the kingdoms can move on.” Ned responds firmly.

The Queen snorts once more. “You are really naïve, are you not my lord. My father will never stand for whatever nonsense you are talking about. The lords of the realm will laugh at you, for providing an accusation with little to no proof. So tell me this my lord, what exactly are you planning on doing?”

Ned stares at the woman for a long moment, wondering what to say, some of what she says makes sense, but he also knows that there is an element of manipulation going on here. He finds himself wondering why has come to this point. Eventually, he finds his voice, and states. “You have committed a crime, you have fornicated with your own brother, to create, three children, and have tried to pass them off as the King’s own children. Not only that, but when Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon tried to get you to see reason, you killed one and drove off the other.”

He had expected a variety of responses, but he had not expected the one he got. The Queen bursts out laughing. “Oh my Lord, you truly are naïve, but not only that, you are a hypocrite. Arryn and Stannis had no proof, neither do you. Furthermore, I did not kill Arryn.” The Queen pauses, her chest heaving up and down in anger, before she eventually continues. “And what of your own treason?”

“My treason?” Ned asks, surprised, and a little nervous.

“Yes, your treason.” The Queen responds, as if he is some sort of slow minded idiot, the thought makes him angry. “You have kept someone hidden from the King since the rebellion, and you have never thought to reveal them to the King. In doing that, you have committed your own treason.”

“And what treason is this?” Ned asks curiously, his heart pounding.

“The boy you claim as your bastard. He is not really your bastard, is he Lord Stark?” the Queen replies tauntingly.

Ned feels fear surge through him at the words of the Queen. “I do not know what you mean, Your Grace.”

The Queen smirks in response. “Of course you do, Lord Stark. You might have fooled everyone else with your story, but not me. Rhaegar Targaryen and your whore of a sister eloped with one another, and had a child.”

Ned feels his heart nearly beat out of his chest. “No, you are talking nonsense. Jon Snow is my son.”

“Oh please do not insult my intelligence. We both know this is the truth. Anyone who knew Prince Rhaegar can see that the boy is his. He has the Prince’s build, and his attitude, no doubt helped by you. Your treason has come to light, the question is how long will you survive, now that I know?” the Queen taunts.

Ned stares at the woman, his heart hammering in his chest, he feels sick, and he regrets coming here, and asking for this meeting, but he knows that it is too late to do anything about it, and so he replies. “I do not think that you have this right Your Grace. There is no treason on my part, only on yours.”

“Ser Jaime, did you hear that?” the Queen asks, calling out, into the darkness, the Kingslayer soon appears, smirking, thirty other men with him.

“I did Your Grace.” The Kingslayer responds. “What do you want done?”

“Arrest him. The King will want to see him.” The Queen responds. She then looks at him and whispers. “My son, the King.”


	26. De Donde?

**King Robert I Baratheon**

There was an intense ache in his gut, Robert did not know what it was, but it was as if he was being eaten from the inside. The death was coming, Pycelle said as much, but even Pycelle was known to exaggerate, and it would suit his purpose. The Lannisters wanted him dead, had wanted him dead for a very long time, but he had fought on, through their schemes and intrigues, he had fought on. But now, now he was too weak to keep fighting, now he wanted only to sleep. First though, he needed to speak with Ned, his oldest and only friend. Ned who was a fool, who did not know his arse from his head, and now, well now time was running out.

“Ned.” He calls out, his friend walking toward him, slowly, his vision blurred.

“Your Grace?” Ned asks.

Robert laughs, the movement making his sides hurt with pain. “You have done a terrible job, but you did not have a great start. And for that I would ask you forgive me.” Ruling had never been his strong point, he was always more about fighting, and fucking.

“There is nothing to forgive Your Grace.” Ned responds, good as always.

“Ah bugger it Ned, you can curse me, just once. I am a dying man; we both know this.” Robert responds.

Robert sees the way his friend reacts, and he smiles internally, good, at least Cersei did this one thing right. “At least Ser Barristan was there to intercede on your behalf, before my wife took over.”

Ned nods, and Robert can tell his friend looks uncertain and even a bit resentful. “Why did you do that? Why not simply summon me?”

Robert can tell the important time is coming, the end of his road. “Because I wanted to see what you would say. What your honour would make you do, when you discovered the truth.”

He can tell by his friend’s gasp, that this was not the answer Ned had been expecting. Indeed, his friend’s voice is accusatory when he replies. “So you knew? You knew the children were not yours, and yet you did nothing?”

Robert laughs again, his laughter causing his body to ache in pain. “Do something? How could I do something? I am not a child killer Ned, and executing Cersei would bring war. There are still dragons across the sea, I could not afford to destabilise the kingdom. I owed it that much.”

He can tell his friend is angry with his response, that he wants to yell, but Ned has never been one for yelling, instead his friend merely asks. “What do you want me to do Your Grace? The rightful heir is some way away, and Stannis has been getting swords to his cause.”

“That red witch of his has been doing much good for my brother. Varys tells me, they’ve been fucking. I never thought Stannis would ever have done such a thing. As for Renly, Renly has no brains.” Robert replies.

Ned looks at him confused. “So? That does not help me Robert.”

Robert sighs, sometimes his friend could be quite thick. “Do not do anything, now Cersei knows you know, there will be nothing stopping her from killing you and your family. You must leave King’s Landing.”

Ned looks horrified at the thought. “Leave King’s Landing? But then that will leave her free to do as she pleases. She will put her bastard on the throne, and claim him as your son. I cannot do that.”

Robert uses what is left of his strength to grab Ned by the collar, and growls. “You will do as your King commands. Your daughters are out of here, now get yourself out of here. Raise your banners and march back south, and put the rightful ruler on the throne.”

He feels his friend stutter to a stop. “What…what rightful King?”

Robert grunts in laughter, and he feels a little bit of blood dribble out of his mouth. “Come now Ned, enough nonsense. We both know Cersei was only partially right. There is a boy in Winterfell who could sit the throne, who has been raised by you. He would make a good King, he would be a far better one than I. So tell me Ned, are you going to tell him?”

“I…I…” Ned stutters in response, Robert feels his power on life slipping away, something in him is telling him now is the right time to go, but another part of him is telling him to remain.

“Do it Ned. Do it. The boy deserves to know. He needs to know now.” Robert replies. “I know you have told your wife the truth, it is time the boy knew who he was.”

“How…am I to do that?” Ned asks.

“You are to leave for Winterfell tonight, during the chaos of my death. You will go back, and you will tell the boy what he needs to know, and then you shall raise the banners. The Tullys will rise for the boy, as will the Arryns if Lysa has any sense. Tywin will try and cause a fuss, but he will be out manoeuvred. I know Renly and Benjen have been planning something, therefore you will need to do something to make sure that is solidified.” Robert says, his breath coming out quickly.

Ned is looking at him as if he has grown a second head. “How do you know?”

Robert laughs, his brain aching, his mind telling him to rest, but he needs to say this, to have one last laugh. “You think I would not know about the boy? Ned, I knew Lyanna, I knew her better than you did. She was my love, she was to be my wife, before that whoreson Rhaegar took her. Of course I would know.”

Ned lowers his head, and murmurs. “Forgive me for not telling you sooner.”

Robert snorts. “Nothing to forgive, just make sure the boy gets his throne.” He sees Varys emerging from the shadows. “Now go Ned, go and right the wrongs.” His friend nods, and then disappears, and Robert laughs, he laughs until blood emerges from his mouth.


	27. Imp

**Tyrion Lannister**

“So Ned Stark has disappeared, gone without a trace. How very inconvenient. You would think the man would willingly give himself up for trial.” Tyrion quips nursing a hangover with a glass of wine.

“This is no laughing brother, Stark knows things that he should not, and if his conversation with Robert happened as we fear it did, then we are doomed.” Cersei replies waspishly.

Tyrion holds his hands up and says. “Well perhaps then you should have thought about that before you went out and decided to speak to him. That was not a very smart thing to do, now was it, sweet sister?”

His sister scowls at him and responds. “Instead of haranguing me about that, why don’t you remind us about what you learned at Winterfell?”

At this, Tyrion grimaces. “I learned that they do not trust us, and that they believe everything we say and do is lined with treasonous and poisonous intent.”

“So just as their liege does then.” Cersei points out.

“Well that is nothing new, the Starks have always resented us, because we have the sense to use our gifts for our own advancement.” Jaime replies.

“I think there is more to it than that brother.” Tyrion says haltingly. “When I was there, there was a distinct air of tension about the place and the people. It was almost as if they had a secret about them, and they were worried we would find it.”

He sees his brother and sister look at one another strangely, before they turn away from one another. Cersei fakes a bravery; he knows she does not have. “Stark made some accusation or the other about something or the other. Clearly his wife and he are just as mad as his goodsister. They talk things that make little to no sense.”

It takes him a good moment to process what his sister has said, and when he does, he grimaces. “He accused you of poisoning Jon Arryn then? I had thought Stark would have more sense.”

Jaime snorts. “He is a Stark, by and large they lack sense, unless they are your friend Benjen.”

Tyrion nods in agreement, feeling an odd sense of disquiet at the mention of his friend’s name. “Stark will rise in rebellion, as will Tully, they are linked together in more than just marriage now. Father will need to move quickly.”

“Father is coming to King’s Landing as we speak, to be Joff’s hand.” Cersei responds.

“And what of our allies? Who can we count on other than father, to come to our aid?” Tyrion asks.

“Renly Baratheon has shown himself an unworthy ally, it seems he has decided to leave King’s Landing.” Jaime says.

“Did you let him go?” Tyrion questions, knowing as he does so that if the answer is positive, they are sunk.

He is relieved therefore, when Cersei shakes her head and speaks. “Of course not. We caught him as he tried to leave, we let Tyrell go though, to take a message to his father.”

“And where is Baratheon now?” Tyrion asks cautiously.

“In a guarded room, being reminded as to why betraying his rightful King would not be a good idea.” Cersei replies nonachantly.

“I see.” Tyrion muses. “And how exactly do you plan on winning the Tyrells to your cause, when you keep Mace Tyrell’s favourite son’s toy in a room?”

“We gave Tyrell a message about what would happen if they rebelled, and we also told him to tell his father about the fact that Joffrey is now free to wed again, now that the High Septon formally declared his betrothal to the Stark girl null and void.” Cersei states triumphantly.

Tyrion nods, he suspects that there will be more wrangling needed to be done before such a thing can become concrete, but it is a start at least, and that is more than they could have said at the beginning of all this. Finding his curiosity peaked, he asks. “And what of father, will he come running as soon as possible? If he is ready to come to King’s Landing, will he come with an army? Would that not invite the Riverlords to begin their dance again?”

“The Riverlords will do as they are told.” Cersei replies adamantly. “Or they shall suffer our wrath.”

Tyrion runs a hand through his hair, his hangover getting worse. “What of Stannis, he holds the fleet does he not?”

“He has ships but not an army to man them. None would rally to his banner if they had the will to do it.” Jaime says.

“Joffrey is the rightful King, for all those who are concerned. Stark will never make it back to Winterfell.” Cersei points out.

“How?” Tyrion asks.

“Our allies are working as we speak to intercept him and his ship. Littlefinger has been very useful in that regard.” Cersei replies, shrugging.

“You can trust Littlefinger now can you?” Tyrion asks surprised. “Last time I had heard, you did not trust him whatsoever.”

“Allies change. Littlefinger has proven to be quite useful.” Cersei replies.

Tyrion nods, feeling a sense of foreshadowing in the way his sister speaks. “There is something you aren’t telling me. What is it?”

At this, he sees Jaime shift uncomfortably, and then reply. “We found one of the people who escaped with Ned Stark’s girls. Bring him in.” a man appears, and shoves someone else in, a broken down figure, with a black eye, and broken hands.

Tyrion looks at the figure, then it hits him. “Benjen?! How?”

“We found him as he was entering Riverrun, the girls got in, but not him.” Jaime replies calmly, though Tyrion can tell there is something about all of this that haunts him. He looks at his friend and prays that in time he will be able to forgive him.

“What are you going to do with him?” he finds himself asking.

“Find out what he knows, and how he knows it. Then we shall use it.” Cersei responds firmly.


	28. Quiet Wolf

**Lord Eddard Stark**

Ned hated ships, he had never understood them, and now he was confined to one, and he hated it. The movement under his feet was causing him to almost always be sick, and it was infuriating. He tried to spend as much time as he could below deck, in his cabin, his men weren’t doing so good either. Now though, he needed to speak with the captain, and so that was where he found himself, on deck, Ice on his back, the captain at his side. He took a deep breath then spoke. “I have been meaning to ask you Captain, why are you helping me?”

The man known only to Ned as the Captain, was tall with silvery hair and pale eyes, he could’ve counted as Targaryen had one been of the nature, his voice was deep, and soft at the same time. “Because Lord Varys is an old friend of mine, and he asked me to.”

Ned feels as if that is supposed to comfort him, but all he feels is uneasy. “I see. And how exactly do you know Lord Varys?”

The man smiles an elusive smile, something that only adds to his uneasiness. “We are old friends me and the spider. But that is not something you want to know. We shall be in White Harbour in around another week, then you may head to Winterfell.”

Ned nods, but before he can voice a response, one of the crew members comes up to them and says. “Ships spotted nearing us Captain, they fly no banners.”

Ned feels fear lynch through him, briefly fearing Lannisters. The Captain seems unperturbed, but says. “Flash a light, and if they respond, we need not worry.”  The crewman does as ask, and there is a response, but then a giant groan sounds by somewhere close by, and Ned automatically finds his hand going for the pommel of his sword. Another groan sounds, and then another, before snapping reaches him. “Shit, they’ve got more.” Ned is about to ask what the captain means when bolts come flying out into their stream. More ships appear, then the fighting starts.

He is surprised that this supposed merchant vessel has weapons on it, but then he supposes he should not be surprised at all, the Spider would’ve taken precautions. Bolts are fired, weapons are drawn, and as ships draw closer they are back to back, swinging their swords and slaying men. Ned feels his heart racing, Ice heavy in his hands, he dances from foot to foot, trying desperately to keep going, he breaks through, and more men come. Onward they go, bashing through the chaos, trying desperately not to fall. Men approach and men fall, but he remains there, his men guarding him, they are bleeding, he swears Jory is by his side one moment and then somewhere else the next.

He breaks out in a sweat, more so than before, his heart thrumming inside his chest. Men approach, he parries one blow and then another, and another, before feeling steel slip through the gap in his defence, he gasps slightly at the contact, but keeps moving. The man who did the deed is cut down by a dozen swords before he can make another move on Ned, and for that he is grateful, for by that point there are about a dozen more men coming to fight him. He spins and dances, remembering the moves taught to him so long ago during his youth at the Vale, his sword wet with blood, whilst his own blood dances out onto the floor from a dozen minor injuries. Eventually, he begins slowing, he sees his men fall and die, whilst other men fall and die also, the Captain stands and fights alongside his crew, but then disappears. Ned feels a spear-where did they get a fucking spear from? - pierce his leg, and he goes down, groaning in agony as he does so. He hears sharp rebukes being issued by their attackers, but before he can truly process things, he slumps down, Ice dropping from his hand and onto the deck of the ship. He sees a tall, barrel chested man move toward him, grin at him before kicking him unconscious.

Time passes him by, he comes to occasionally, his leg paining, his head throbbing, he sees bodies being dumped overboard, he sees a man who looks like the captain being given a bag of what probably contains gold, and he feels anger bloom in him. He sees bodies of his men being burned, or thrown away. He feels hands press against him, painful in their touches, he wants to bark at them, demand that they leave him be, but he does not, he cannot speak so weak and tired is he. He closes his eyes again.

When next Ned opens his eyes, he is no longer on the ship, instead, it seems he is on a boat, a little one meant to ferry someone to another place. He leans over the side and throws up, his guts spilling out into the sea beneath them. He wipes his hand, looks once at the person ferrying him across, he does not recognise that person, and then he closes his eyes and goes to sleep again, trying to numb any sort of pain.

The third time he opens his eyes, he feels the rocking of a ship caught in a storm, and he whispers. “Winterfell.” He gets no response, and falls into a dreamless sleep, but that is not entirely true, the ghosts of his past come back to haunt him. Figures long dead, cursing him, making him promise things against his will. Silver haired, brown haired, black haired, they all stand before him, mocking him.

The next time he wakes up, he is in a bed, he feels a cool breeze on his body, and there is something familiar and yet quite strange about this new place. It is not Winterfell, it is not White Harbour, he goes to move, to sit up, but winces in pain and so leans down. He hears a chuckle, and then a voice, deep and unfamiliar. “Ah, Lord Stark, so nice to see you awake.”

“Where am I?” he rasps, his voice dry.

“Pentos.” The voice replies kindly.


	29. Letter

**Lady Catelyn Stark**

The letters had arrived that morning, bringing with them a sense of chaos and confusion not felt at Winterfell since the day the King had arrived, or since the day the King had left. Robert Baratheon was dead, killed by his own whims, Joffrey Baratheon was King now, and had accused her husband of treason. Ned and his brother Benjen were prisoners, whilst her girls were in Riverrun. That last bit relieved her somewhat, but she was worried. Worried about what this all meant now, now the Lannisters had showed their hand.

Her son looked contemplative. “The King on the Iron Throne has demanded that I come south to answer for father’s alleged crimes, and that I also come and swear fealty to him.”

“You go south, you won’t leave.” Jon points out. “We all know what Joffrey is like.”

“If I do not go south, he will accuse me of treason, and more than likely give our land to someone else.” Robb points out.

“A good thing the girls are in Riverrun then.” Catelyn states. She is relieved they made it into Riverrun, though her heart aches at the thought that Benjen was snatched.

Her son looks at her intently then. “The girls will not remain safe in Riverrun forever, if what Uncle Edmure says is true. Tywin Lannister is gathering men, or is already marching into the Riverlands, on his grandson’s orders. I have to act, and act soon.”

Catelyn nods, she knows this to be true, that does not stop the sharp fear in her. “And what will you do?”

Her son looks hesitant, and that is when Theon Greyjoy speaks. “Give me leave to go to the Islands now Robb, and I will get my father to provide you with his ships. You will have the necessary strength to challenge Tywin Lannister.”

Before Robb can respond, Catelyn finds herself speaking. “You are still my Lord Husband’s ward Theon, and it is for him to decide what to do with you.”

Greyjoy looks quite sullen at that, but it is Robb who speaks. “My mother speaks truly Theon sorry. Your father will need to wait.” There is a pause in her son’s speech, and then he looks at Maester Luwin and says. “Send word out to the rest of the north, tell them to begin calling their men. I will not make the mistake my grandsire did. If I go to King’s Landing, I shall take my men with me.”

Catelyn takes a deep breath, relieved. “I can send word to Edmure and ask him to send the girls north through Seagard, that way you do not need to worry about them travailing through Frey territory.”

Her son nods. “Will Walder Frey prove to be a big issue then mother?”

Catelyn thinks over the old man, remembering the last time she’d seen him, shrivelled and prone to anger. “Yes. He sees insults where there are none, and he will spit insults at you, and expect you to rub them off. Furthermore, he will demand something from you.”

“A toll?” her son asks innocently.

Catelyn snorts. “If it were a monetary one, I would not be so concerned. No, most likely he will have you promise something to him. Either yourself or one of the boys or girls.”

“He does not have the right to demand anything from me. Should Tywin Lannister declare war, he is obliged to fight for grandfather.” Robb responds firmly, sounding exactly like Ned.

Catelyn sighs. “Would that it were so.” She remembers something her father once told her of Walder Frey and she grimaces. “He is not a man to remember loyalty unless it benefits him. He will remain on the side until such a time as he can be convinced of a side.”

“Even with twenty thousand northmen coming down the Twins.” Jon asks incredulously.

Catelyn briefly thinks of saying the one thing that could make Walder Frey move, but she does not want her nephew tied to one of Frey’s girls, or granddaughters. So she keeps silent on that point and instead replies. “Especially then. He might accuse you of treason, he could accuse you of a whole host of things, and there would be little you could to counteract that statement. You will need to approach him with caution.”

“How?” Robb asks, and Catelyn can tell her son is getting impatient. “If he breaks his oath he will be forfeit.”

“He will claim you are forfeit by marching against Joffrey, Robb, perhaps I should come with you.” She suggests, knowing as she does so that her son will reject that.

“No.” Her son says firmly, and then a bit softer he replies. “I need you to remain here mother. I need you to keep Bran and Rickon safe, and to hold Winterfell for me.”

Catelyn knows she could protest, her father is ill and ailing after all, but she nods her head in acceptance, deciding to keep silent, until she remembers something. “You must send word to the Vale before you march Robb. Send word and the knights of the Vale will gladly come to your side. They wish for vengeance against Jon Arryn.”

“What of Aunt Lysa?” her son asks.

“Leave my sister to me.” Catelyn responds, knowing as she says so, that such a thing will be a difficult task, Lysa has grown stubborn and obdurate as of late. “I know what to say to her to get her out of her castle and onto the battlefield.”

Her son nods. “Very well, I shall leave Aunt Lysa to you. Whom amongst the Vale Lords do you recommend I write to?”

“Lord Royce, Lady Waynwood, Lord Hunter, Lord Redfort, Lord Belmore, Lord Templeton and Lord Grafton. All have significant power.” Catelyn says, listing the names from the top of her head.

“Very well.” Her son replies, and in that moment, Catelyn cannot help but notice just how young her boy truly is, how young her nephew is, and she feels nervous once more.


	30. Lost Wolf

**Lord Eddard Stark**

The days dragged on without company, ever since he had woken up, it had been the same routine, struggle to get up, eventually accept that his leg was quite badly damaged, and then have food, no contact with anyone, nothing. This had been the case for a long time, how long he did not know, all he knew was that he was going mad. Eventually, Ned had been able to get out of bed, without wanting to scream in agony, and he had walked slowly around his room, drinking in his surroundings. He had seen a few things, barren paintings of a wasteland, a Dothraki bell, and they had not given him a positive indication of where or who he was with. Finally, he had gotten outside, and had begun training with his sword, and onward he had tried to go, but he had fallen.  Now he found himself looking at a man who clearly was once a warrior but had allowed himself to go to fat. “Who are you?” Ned finds himself asking.

The man smiles wryly at that. “I am Illyrio Mopatis, a Magister of Pentos.”

Ned nods, he has heard the name somewhere before, where exactly he does not know, but he knows he has heard it before. “And pray tell me Magister, what exactly am I doing here? Why am I not in Winterfell?”

At this the Magister gives a dramatic sigh. “Alas, my lord, as I am sure you remember you were attacked by pirates. We found you floating in a boat in the middle of the sea. The Lannisters were coming quickly to find you, and we did what we thought best, which meant bringing you here.”

Ned hears the explanation and tries to fit it against the memories he has, they do not make much sense, but for now he disregards that and instead focuses on something he can try and gauge. “How do you know about the Lannisters? And how would they know where I was?”

The Magister looks at him as if he has grown a second head. “My lord, they were the ones who sent hose pirates after you, they knew where you were going and how you would get there. It did not take too long for them to pin point what to do. You are too dangerous for them to let live.”

“That does not answer my other question.” Ned states pointedly.

The Magister chuckles, making his belly rumble, a disgusting sight. “Forgive me my lord, I have been most forgetful. I know of the Lannisters from our mutual friend. The Spider has many allies and contacts here, and as such he was the one who warned me of what might happen should something befall you.”

 _Varys, the man has a web everywhere._ Curious now, Ned asks. “And what did he say might happen should something befall me?”

At this the magister shifts around nervously, and Ned has to wonder at that. “Many things that we do not wish to happen. You are a father are you not my lord?” Ned nods mutely, wondering where this is going. “Well then, tell me, would you want a war to happen and ravage your children?”

This question is one Ned does not like, it is one he has thought long and hard about since he left King’s Landing. When he had been in the capital he had gotten stuck thinking over the right and wrong of what the Queen and her brother had done, and how to protect the Queen’s children from Robert’s wrath, he had not thought about what this would mean for his own children. That is a thought that shames him, and will continue to shame him till the end of his days. Ned still does not know why he continues to put other people before himself and his own, but right now, he does not know how to answer. “If a war is just, that does not make it wrong.” He replies instead.

This causes the magister to laugh. “Oh, how very honourable of you. You know, I had a uncle just like you, he always was saying if something was right, then it had to be put forward.” The magister looks down at him then, contempt evident in his eyes. “You know what happened to him?”

“No.” Ned states, his irritation with the man growing.

“He got himself killed. He got into an argument with a Prince and eventually found himself impaled on a spear.” The Magister responds. “Sometimes my lord, it pays to think once in a while.”

Ned bristles slightly at the implied insult to himself, and finds himself asking. “What do you want from me? I am no good to you, and whatever other plans the Spider has. So let me go, let me return back to my home and my family.”

At this, the Magister looks sad, if that is even possible, and his words are whispered in response. “Ah but you are needed here my lord. You swore a vow; do you remember? A long time ago, alongside your brothers and sister, a vow sworn in good health and harmony.”

A memory comes floating back into his mind, long since suppressed, and it makes him shiver slightly in fear. “Robert also swore that vow, and he broke it.”

The Magister looks at him unimpressed. “And what do you think happened to him, my lord? How do you think he died?”

“What do you want from me?” Ned asks, hating how his voice shakes, an old and ancient fear stirring itself internally.

The magister moves closer to him, and in that moment, Ned can see the imposing man he had once been. “I want you to remember what you swore. And when you remember, then you can go and meet the man you swore the vow to. You can meet your rightful King, and remember your honour.” Ned nods, though he feels sick inside, no good can come from this.


	31. Slavers

****

**Prince Aemon Targaryen**

Astapor stank of shit, the people looked like shit, and the whole city just reeked of corruption and all the things he despised about people. If he was of the mind, Aemon knew he could destroy the city and build it back up again, but he could not be bothered. He was not in Astapor to free slaves or change the social order of Astapor, he was merely there to buy soldiers for his army, and move on. The man who was responsible for the Unsullied was a fat and obnoxious man, and Aemon could tell he was hungry for Dany, the thought alone made Aemon grip his sword all the tighter, whilst one hand rested on the dagger on his belt. He listened to the man prattle on insulting them in Valyrian, pretending he did not understand. When in fact he understood perfectly.

Kraznys mo Nakloz, one of the masters speaks in an obnoxious tone, translated by his slave. “The Unsullied are trained from a very young age to face fear and pain without complaint. They are taken from their mothers at a young age, trained in the arts of defence and aggression and prepared for war.”

Aemon nods, then looks at the master and his slave and asks. “And how are they trained to fight. What is their preference for fighting techniques?”

He waits and listens as his question is translated to the slaver, and listens to the response. “They are trained in the art of formation, shield and spear are their preferred weapons. They fight in the lock step formation of the old Ghiscari legion. They know more about fighting in formation than any fighting force in the world.”

“How would they do against archers?” Aemon asks, thinking about the tales of the Reachmen and the Stormlords.

The question is translated. “Get one of your horse lords to fire.” Comes the response.

Aemon nods. “Rakharo.” The man comes up, bow in hand and fires at the Unsullied, Aemon watches as shields are pulled up and the arrow bounces harmlessly off of the shields. “Again.” Aemon barks, and the same thing happens. He watches impressed, then says. “Very well, I shall not wait and ask more questions, how much would the master accept for them?”

“Six hundred thousand dragons and the girl.” Comes the response.

Aemon laughs. “I see. Ser Jorah, give the man the money.” The knight throws the bag onto the space between them.

“The girl.” Is the response.

Aemon pulls Dany closer to him and responds. “The girl is mine.”

“The girl and the money, or nothing.” Comes the response.

Aemon feels the anger inside of him grow at the response, he pulls out his sword, and barks. “The girl is mine. The unsullied are mine.” He looks at the unsullied and sees them hovering, uncertain, the money is there before them, they heard the original terms, they know who their master is. “You are mine now.”

“Fight!” the master screams, in every language he knows, the Unsullied do not move.

Aemon laughs. The dragons begin soaring up into the air, roaring their delight at being free, more masters and people begin venturing out of their hovels, trying desperately not to look up, for fear of being burned. Aemon watches as the dragons soar higher, and once they’ve reached the right height, he roars. “Dracarys.” Chaos breaks out then, the dragons led by his dragon breathe out their rage and anger, fire, red hot, black and gold and green, all of it dances before them, burning the master, and his slaves, reducing them to ash. He laughs, as the unsullied turn on their former owners, the masters try and marshal some resistance, but nothing comes of it. Aemon draws his sword, wielding like a man possessed he moves through the carnage, working his way toward the people who he knows to be responsible for this. He cuts them down like the pigs they are, laughing as he does so. Eventually, the carnage ends, but his bloodlust has not fallen. “We shall destroy the city.” He roars, his men roar alongside him.

It all passes in a blur, fighting, killing, fucking, more and more men fall before the blade, he laughs, they all laugh, the fighting breaks out into carnage. When the debris begins falling, Aemon stands above the tower of the sun, sweating, blood soaked and alive. He looks at what has happened, he looks all around them, and raises his sword, tired and ill, but victorious, his sister by his side. “This is not the beginning of the fall; this is the beginning of a new age. You are mine now. And together we shall claim what was stolen from me.” A roar sounds in response and he smiles. “We shall cross the sea, and regain the throne of my ancestors.” Another roar. “Now kill the enemy.” And the chaos begins once more, he watches as more blood is shed in the name of the dragons, in his name.

When the dust finally settles, he finds himself with a cup of wine in one hand, and his dagger in the other, how he got there he does not know, but he is alive, they are alive, and Astapor is burning. Aemon sits down. “We move toward the ships soon.”

“Your Grace, what of the slaves?” Jorah asks.

“Let them remain here, I do not need them, they are not my responsibility.” Aemon responds.

“What of Missandei? Can we keep her?” Dany asks, her voice slightly pleading.

Aemon looks at his sister, then looks at the girl. “We are not going anywhere else in Slaver’s Bay, what will she be to you?”

His sister leans in to the girl and presses her lips to the girl’s, then pulls away and responds. “A friend, and someone to use.”

Aemon smiles. “Very well she may stay, but we leave, and we leave tonight.” With that he turns and walks away, Ser Jorah and the Unsullied following him, his heart thumping with pride.


	32. El Diablo

****

**Ser Jorah Mormont**

Astapor burned, Jorah could picture the charred corpses of men, women and children who had gotten in the way of the former slaves and the King. He could remember the smell of it all, the feeling of tension within him, and then the feeling of relief as he’d killed one man and then another, imaging them as the men who’d taken Lynesse from him. There was much and more to like about the King, that he was the father of Dragons was just one of them, the King was not shy of voicing his feelings, of demanding when he wanted to. He was a God, a veritable God, and one Jorah would follow to the end and back. They left Astapor behind, boarded ships, around eighty of them, war galleys and merchant vessels, heading for Dragonstone, not Pentos.

They were on the flag ship, the Dragon’s Tail, the King was looking at him with firm eyes, a determined look. “You have been to Dragonstone before have you not Ser Jorah?” the King asks, his sister sat on his lap.

“I have Your Grace, during the ending of the War of the Usurper.” Jorah responds, trying to avoid the reasoning for why he had gone.

“What is it like?” the King asks.

“It is big, broad and monstrous. The perfect place for a landing Sire. It is the home of legend, and it is strong.” Jorah responds honestly, remembering how he had shivered the first time he’d laid eyes on the place.

“And what of the man who rules the castle? This Stannis Baratheon fellow. What is he like?” the King asks.

Jorah takes a moment to think through this, he has only met Stannis Baratheon once, during the Greyjoy rebellion, and he had not found the man to be that personable. “He is grim, dark and determined. He has lived his entire life in his brother’s shadow, and he resents that.”

The King nods. “Does he resent being given Dragonstone instead of Storm’s End?”

It is an odd question, but one Jorah knows the King shall want answered, and one does not answer the King. “Yes. When it was announced he was to be Lord of Dragonstone, he and his brother quarrelled over the matter. Indeed, it was only his devotion to duty that made him accept the post.”

The King tilts his head intrigued. “And if one was to remind him of his brother’s usurpation and the chance to gain Storm’s End, what would Stannis Baratheon do?”

Jorah considers this question carefully, if he is right about Stannis Baratheon, the man will want nothing less than the throne, if his brother is indeed dead, and yet, perhaps, perhaps he can be made to see reason. There was the rumour he had nearly bent to Aerys, and sold his brother out, when the usurper started his little rebellion. After considering this information for some time, and aware of the growing impatience of the King, he hurriedly says. “I believe that the man would bend the knee. He has no son, therefore the land and titles could go to the crown if you so desire Sire.”

Jorah sees the King smile in response to this. “That is good.” The King then nuzzles his sister’s hair and whispers. “Can you imagine it Dany? Rhaegal and Viserion resting in Storm’s End?”

His sister laughs. “I think such a thing would be most grand.”

Jorah nods, captivated by this display of affection between two people who are equivalent to Gods. He blinks when the King speaks to him once more. “Tell me some more about the Lords of the Crownlands. They were traditionally tied to the throne and the dragon were they not?”

“They were Sire.” Jorah replies cautiously.

“How then, did they end up straying so far?” the King asks curiously.

“Gold and ambition Sire.” Jorah responds truthfully. “The old lords who served under your father are dead, they have been replaced by boys and men who know nothing of truth or of honour. These new lords care only for their own pocket and fortune. They are no true men, not even their own mothers would support them, when faced with dragon’s fire.”

Somewhere, high above them, the King’s own dragon growls, as if he senses the King’s anger. The King nods in response. “So are they false?”

Jorah hesitates, his information on the crownlords is most likely out of date, but it would not do to admit that. And so he says truthfully, albeit hesitantly. “I believe that they can be made into honest men Sire. You need only scare them into speaking their hearts, and then you can make them see the right way.”

“Would doing such a thing, not simply aggravate them further?” Princess Daenerys asks.

“Sometimes, it is necessary to make your allies feel the heat, so they are reminded of what they have to lose should they betray you.” The King says, saying something that sounds eerily like what Prince Rhaegar had said to Jorah before the Trident.

“I quite agree Your Grace.” Jorah says, as he had done on that day long ago, when a silver prince had spoken to him. “Without the appropriate behaviour, they will grow greedy and gluttonous, a threat to royal authority, and in no way the right people to lead.”

The King nods, and then whispers something to his sister, Jorah watches as the Princess nods in agreement, kisses her brother, then gets off the King’s lap and walks out of the cabin room. When they are alone in silence, the King turns to him, and says. “You have done well Ser Jorah, very well. I would know what it is you want done with your wife when we return?”

“Sire?” Jorah asks surprised. “I had thought she was in Lys.”

The King grins then. “Oh she was, but the magister has friends in all the right places. She is coming with us to Westeros. What do you want done with her?”

Jorah feels his heart beat quicken. “I would speak with her if I could, Sire.”

The King nods. “Of course.” And with that he dismisses Jorah, leaving the knight feeling off kilter.


	33. War Games

**Tyrion Lannister**

The war was raging; the effects were being felt by all. Tyrion was not sure how he felt about all of this. He knew exactly what Benjen would say should he go and ask him, and he knew what Renly had said. They would remind him of the oaths he had sworn long ago, back when it seemed as if Robert would live forever. Robert was dead now, and Tyrion felt as if his life was dangling by a thread. He was not a fool, he knew his nephew did not like him, that Lord Tywin’s letter naming him as acting hand was the only thing keeping him alive right now, but once his lord father came to King’s Landing, he was doomed, and that, that was a terrifying thought. It did not help that that was the thought that constantly plagued him as he sat and listened to council business, like today.

“Ser Jaime has written from the Riverlands, my lord.” Grand Maester Pycelle says, his tone onerous. “He states that in his fight with the southern Riverlords led by Lord Darry he managed to defeat them quite convincingly and has now advanced further afield toward Harrenhal.”

Tyrion nods, he’d never doubted that his brother would defeat Darry, Jaime was a good fighter, whilst Darry was simply hot headed. However, before he can voice that thought, his sister speaks, her tone petulant. “Why is he heading toward Harrenhal? Father is at Riverrun, surely he should be heading there?”

Tyrion feels like slapping his sister for such a stupid question, instead he grits his teeth and says. “He is heading to Harrenhal to ensure that Lady Whent does not try anything. She might not have that many men, or enough to pose a significant threat, but Harrenhal is an important castle and very resource heavy. Should this war last longer than we think it will, we shall need those resources.”

His sister snorts and responds. “You do not sound as confident as I think we’d like brother. After all, Darry and his army are dead or buried. Furthermore, father has managed to break the back of the Riverlords army that was gathered at the border with the West.”

“That is true.” Tyrion concedes, thinking over the reports that had come regarding the brutal battle near the tooth, of how Lord Tywin’s forty thousand strong army had completely decimated the smaller host of Ser Edmure Tully. “However, Riverrun will not be so easy to overrun. Ser Edmure might be a prisoner, but Lord Blackwood is a stubborn old man, and he will not bend so easily.”

“He will if the girls are threatened.” Baelish says then, his eyes gleaming with some hidden malice. “Lord Blackwood is a chivalrous old fool, and the Stark girls are his liege lord’s granddaughters, they will hold sway over him. The moment one of them feels weak, he will surrender.”

Tyrion sees his sister smile then, and he feels a slight chill run through him at the sight. “I think I know just who that could be.” A moment pause, then his sister continues. “The eldest Stark girl, Sansa, she has always been a delicate flower, give her about two weeks under siege, and she shall start cracking. Further to this, I do get the impression that she never got over Joffrey and their betrothal falling through.”

Tyrion looks at his sister surprised. “You would bait her with something that would not happen?”

“If it means we can end this front of the war and focus on Stannis, then yes, yes I would.” His sister replies unashamedly.

“And what of Stannis, what is it that he has been doing exactly?” Tyrion asks, looking directly at Varys.

The eunuch smirks at that. “He’s been sitting on his hands, gathering swords, and money to his side. It seems he has determined to make use of the Red Priestess and her swords.”

“So has he converted then? Are the rumours true?” Tyrion asks.

“I do not think anyone can ever truly gather whether or not Stannis Baratheon believes in any form of religion. He is quite like his younger brother in that regard. He will use whatever tool he can to get to where he can, so long as his principles are not compromised.” The eunuch responds.

Tyrion thinks over this, before saying. “We can use this to our advantage. The faith has been too silent for some time now; it is time we used this to our advantage. I do believe that if we can make the louts in Baelor’s Sept see just how poisonous the red god is to them and what they stand for, they will rally more support for us.”

“That is a very dangerous game to play, brother, the Faith are notoriously fickle in their allegiances.” His sister points out.

“Furthermore, there is a lot of pressure coming from Oldtown as well, for the Faith to remain neutral.” Baelish points out.

“No doubt that is the doing of the Tyrells and the Hightowers.” His sister responds with disgust. She looks at him then and asks. “What have you actually learned from Renly Baratheon? Has he said anything of use?”

At this Tyrion sighs, remembering his friend’s haunted eyes, the fearful expression on his face as he had asked about Loras Tyrell, and his relief when he learned that Tyrell was free. Tyrion runs a hand over his face, and then replies. “He says little and less. He knows we are fighting a war, and that we have offered the Tyrells terms. But other than that he says nothing.”

“Perhaps if you were to use some more persuasive manners of questioning you might get him to talk?” Baelish asks suggestively.

“No!” Tyrion says firmly. Then a bit calmer. “I do not think such a thing would be of benefit to us. Not if we want him and the Stormlords to remain on our side.”

“And how long might that be for?” his sister asks.

“Truthfully sister, I do not know, and that is what worries me.” Tyrion replies honestly.


	34. War, War

****

**Robb Stark**

They had hurried forth from Winterfell once the banners had all arrived, some twelve thousand in total with two thousand more from White Harbour joining them. They had marched quickly, arriving at the Twins, where a deal had been negotiated, Robb would marry one of the girls from the Frey brood, whilst taking a squire, in the form of Olyvar Frey, and younger boys would be sent as wards to Winterfell. Frey had offered a boy for one of his sister’s hands, and Robb had nearly allowed Greywind to take the man’s head off, after that Frey had relented, and they had marched, aided by some two thousand Frey foot and one hundred Frey horse. Things had gone to shit in the south for his family, and Robb needed to sort them out before it got any worse.

They had rushed southwards with growing pace, learning of Riverrun’s siege, Darry’s defeat, and Harrenhal’s fall, and now, now they were facing a Lannister army, Daven Lannister a knight of some renown had burned his way through the Riverlands to meet them. Robb’s heart pounded in his chest as he listened to the sounds of fighting drawing them nearer and nearer, the Greatjon had taken command of the first assault, a daring attack that was meant to draw Lannister closer. Bolton held the rear, whilst Mormont was advancing through the bushes. Hopefully all would go well, but Robb was quite nervous, he did not know what to expect. Theon and Jon were at his side, so that was a relief. Slowly but surely, the horn sounds, and he draws his sword, leading his men toward the charge.

The horses thunder toward the enemy, Robb’s helm is drawn low, covering his face, they move forward, and his heart quickens in pace. It beats in time with the thudding of his horse’s hooves, drawing forth many memories that might rather be left unsaid. As they come closer to the enemy, Robb draws his sword preparing to level any and all enemies who do so dare to come before him. The inevitable crash comes, and with it, his sword strikes out not against lances as he had expected, but against peasant weapons. This throws him slightly, and so he finds himself breathing heavier than he had thought possible. He swings his sword, and sees one, then another, then another man falls down, screaming in ill-equipped armour and leathers. Greywind emits savage growls as he advances forward, more of the peasantry moving forward, fighting for the right to be slain by his blade.

A man manages to get through his defence and strikes hard into his shoulder, luckily the armour guard there lessens the sting of the blow, though it stings a lot. He winces, but then cuts the man down, and advances forward. Another man comes forward, this one a great giant, swinging what looks like to be a scythe, Robb sees one of his guard cut down, pulled by the great hulking thing, another is knocked off his horse, and Robb sweats. Feeling fear course down his spine, thankfully the man is shot down by a host of arrows, Theon doing his work atop a horse. They move forward, and more peasants come, there is no sign of their commander, nor the wider Lannister army, and that worries him. For a moment he wonders if he has gotten the positioning wrong, or if Lannister had led them away from where they were supposed to fight. A host of concerns flitter through his mind at that thought, beating themselves against his head, causing him to get hit by a string of blows he might have otherwise have avoided.

A pain shoots through his arms as he cuts down one man, and then another, his gauntlets way a tonne, and he is not quite sure that he can quite manage to make things easy, or as easy for himself as he would have liked. The pain continues to course through him, drawing away at his strength, sapping him like some sort of vulture. Or a leech. Bolton, Bolton should be advancing slowly and surely, Robb is not sure about the man, nor his sons, but that is not the point right now. They continue fighting, his sword dredged in blood, another farmer’s boy cut down before his time. They move forward, Robb feels his arms aching, a blaze here and there, but nothing more. The ground is littered with bodies, some of them his men, others nameless, faceless and unimportant. Jon is still at his side, somehow, they have come through this together, if they emerge successful, perhaps then they can move onto Riverrun and achieve some level of success.

He sees a big man, someone he thinks might be Harrion Karstark cut down one man, and then another, and then another, and another before, five men advance on him and drag him down with their numbers and their insistency. Horses go screaming, Robb wants to help, but the fighting is closing in around him. He hears a mournful roar, and he knows Rickard and the other Karstarks have seen what has happened. A funereal he will have to attend then. A shallow thought, he keeps fighting, swinging his sword, his brain short circuiting as they move through it all. He does not want to be here, he wants to be anywhere but here, in this stinking field of rot and death, but he must keep going. He gets hit again and again, and he hits back, determined not to fall, though he can tell that is what his body wants to do, that this is something he desperately wants to do.

He hears a roar, sees a lion of a man charging toward him on his horse, watches as soldiers and his own guard are cut down, he watches and waits with baited breath for death to come. He does not think he has the strength to withstand this assault, the assault that is surely coming. He welcomes it even, shameful though it is, he welcomes the relief, the roar, the whistle all of it. The chance to rest. Before he can get his rest though, an arrow comes whistling past, and then another, both hit the lion in the face, in the helm, and then into the body, and then the horse. The man falls, and his guard pounce, stabbing and hacking until the man does not move, and Robb sighs with relief and shame.


	35. Ghost

**Ser Jaime Lannister**

Jaime was having difficulty sleeping. The ghosts of the battle were haunting him again. This had happened to him before, during the Greyjoy rebellion, and before that during the little uprising that Lord Grandison had staged. He could remember the faces of the dead, the men he had slain, they would come before him demanding an answer for his sins. All his guilt would come spilling forth then, making him toss and turn, until he could do nothing more than wake up and train. It was no different here, Harrenhal was filled with ghosts for Jaime. This was where he had been made a knight of the Kingsguard, where he had sworn a vow that he had broken years later, and the guilt gnawed at him, still, a festering wound. There was nothing for it, he got up and changed into armour and moved about. Harrenhal was a towering fortress, but it was half empty and broken, Shella Whent had left the moment word reached her of his march. The crimson lion of Lannister flew atop the ramparts with the crowned stag and crowned lion of the King next to it. His father was waiting for him when he got to the great hall, his father looked at him and he sat down.

Lord Tywin was a strong and towering man, who was balding, or rather had been balding before he had decided to shave off his hair. He had golden whiskers, and epitomised the lion of Lannister better than any man Jaime had ever met. His father looks at him for a long moment then speaks, his voice deep and commanding. “Word has come from our forces near Riverrun. There have been two battles. Daven is dead, and Kevan has been taken prisoner.”

It takes Jaime a moment to process this information, his armour creaking slightly as he moves. “How did this happen?” Daven was rash, but not as rash as Jaime himself was, and uncle Kevan, well uncle Kevan was father’s right hand.

Lord Tywin had long ago learned how to mask his emotions, if there was any anger there about Daven’s death, or fear over the capture of uncle Kevan, he hid it well, his voice was calm when he replied. “Both did as they were bid. Daven led a burning campaign across the northern Riverlands and forced Stark to meet him in the whispering wood. They fought, Daven came very close to killing Stark, but was cut down by Stark men. His army was broken, as was intended.”

“You intended for Daven to die?” Jaime asks shocked.

“He died of his own foolishness. But his army was meant to be broken. Stark needed to belief he could win, and now he does. He will make more mistakes now.” Tywin responds simply.

Jaime finds himself marvelling at just how cold his father sounds in that moment. And he also says a quick prayer for Daven, he had liked his cousin, the man was far more competent than his father, the bumbling Ser Stafford. “What about Uncle Kevan?”

At this, Lord Tywin grimaces, or does something similar. “That was unfortunate. The siege of Riverrun was going mostly well, they were close to breaking, but then Stark emerged and fought Kevan. He was penned in between Stark’s army and Riverrun itself. It was only natural that he would be captured.”

“What does this mean for our plans then?” Jaime asks.

His father is silent, states. “If Stark has any sense, he will offer to trade Kevan for his uncle Benjen and for his father. We shall accept such an offer and peace will be made between the two realms. We can then focus on Stannis.”

Jaime nods, seeing the sense in what his father says, but remembering also, the boy he met during the royal visit to Winterfell. Robb Stark is not someone he thinks would bend easily. That is what prompts him to ask. “What if the boy does not make such an offer?”

His father looks at him as if such a thing is inconceivable, though, he then goes onto show that he has thought of it, for he responds. “Then we shall make him regret that decision. Gregor Clegane is ready with his men to go pillaging around the Riverlands, as is Armory Lorch. Once they realise just how badly damaged their lands are getting, the Riverlords will beg for release to get back to their own lands to protect them. If Stark is like his father, he will send some of his own men to aid them. You will march out from Harrenhal, and fight them, and break them.”

Jaime thinks of what he had to do in the aftermath of the Grandison rebellion, and he quickly takes a sip of water. “Very well. What do we do until Stark sends someone to negotiate a peace?” he hopes to the seven that the boy has more of his mother in him than his father.

“Until then, we shall prepare and analyse what we know of Stark and his army, as well as that of the Rivermen.” His lord father responds. There is a brief silence, in which Jaime feels as though he is a little boy again, with his father sizing him up, assessing him to see if he has lived up to the expectations of such a great house, and man. Then his father speaks, and the silence is broken. “Once we are done with this fighting here, you shall return to King’s Landing and ask the King to free you from your vows in the Kingsguard, and you will resume your place as my heir.”

Jaime hears the words, but he does not believe them. “That has never happened before. No member of the Kingsguard has ever been allowed to leave alive before.”

“That was under the Targaryens. The Targaryens are no more.” His father responds simply.

Before Jaime can respond, a messenger comes hurrying into the hall, the man is red in the face, panting, he takes a long time to get himself in order, and then he speaks words, Jaime had thought he’d never hear. “My lord, word from the capital. Eddard Stark has been executed.” Jaime closes his eyes briefly, wondering who it is who has actually died, and how to protect Cersei now.

 


	36. Revelations

****

**Lord Eddard Stark**

Pentos was hot and humid, but it was a room and a manse, gardens where he could recuperate and get his strength back. It drove him mad, but he was seeing the benefits of it now. His leg hurt like mad though, and he was not sure he would ever be able to walk on it properly, but that was not the matter now. Things were moving, he was learning of war, of fights in Westeros, and he was not sure what to make of them. The promise he had made at Harrenhal with Brandon and Robert played through his mind, the naivety of it all before they went mad. Before the world went mad. It plays through his mind, and he wants to scream, he wants to beg for it to stop. But it does not stop, and he knows it will not stop until he fulfils his oath, though how he does not know. They leave Pentos after what feels an age, Ned on a horse, gritting his teeth, the magister on something a bit more elaborate. And as they move through the deserts, they talk.

“So how long have you and the Spider been planning this little venture of yours?” Ned asks, and upon seeing the stiffening of the magister’s shoulders, Ned finds himself saying. “Come now magister, if you want me to take part in this, to renege on everything we fought the rebellion for, I deserve to know.”

The magister laughs, but it does not seem genuine. “You have a true point there my Lord of Winterfell.” There is a pregnant pause. “Very well. The spider and I have been planning this venture of ours, as you describe it, from the moment Robert Baratheon got out of Gulltown alive.” The knowledge surprises Ned, he remembers hearing about Gulltown, about how Robert came a dagger’s breadth away from dying, and his surprise must show on his face, for the magister chuckles. “Ah yes, Baratheon did nearly die at Gulltown, but we decided to allow him to live. Or rather, we were forced to accept he was going to live.”

“So you thought that there would be a situation where the Targaryens would need to be protected right from that very moment? How could you be sure that Robert and the rebellion would succeed? Robert could have died on numerous occasions before he got to King’s Landing.” Ned points out, he remembers seeing his friend in the arms of a whore at the Stoney Sept, right after they had won the battle of the bells, and he remembers the rage he had felt.

The Magister seems to be looking at him quite closely, judging by how quickly he looks away when Ned looks at him. “Robert Baratheon managed to break Gulltown and get the proud Lord Grafton to bend the knee to him and recognise the rebellion. That was no easy feat, Grafton had always been a difficult customer. And then he won at Summerhall, and we truly believed we needed to do something.”

“And what did you do then?” Ned asks, his curiosity getting the better of him, he does not like thinking over the days of the rebellion, of the chaos that it brought, of the feeling of his sister in his arms.

“We made the necessary arrangements. We spoke to the people we knew, the contacts we had both made across the waters. And we planned. The King could not have known about what we were doing. Otherwise we would have all been set down to drown.” The magister responds.

“How would the King have found about you? You were across the sea, if anything the spider would have gotten into danger had you been found out.” Ned points out.

The magister nods. “You speak truly, though even then, there were webs that were in King’s Landing that had been there from before our time. We had to be very careful, and so we watched and we prodded, and then we moved.”

Ned nods, gritting his teeth slightly as a rap of pain shoots through him. “And what is my role in all of this? You have reminded me of an oath I swore, but you have not told me what you want from me, or my family.” The fear of what is expected of him has kept him up late into the night sometimes, and so he waits with baited breath.

The magister does not keep him waiting long. “We want you to raise the north for the rightful rulers of Westeros. The north will not bend to anyone else but a Stark. Long ago, your ancestor and the Dragon, the greatest of the Targaryens agreed that so long as there was a Stark in Winterfell, there would be a Targaryen on the throne and vice versa. The rebellion broke that. And now we want you to fix it.”

Ned nods mutely, his fear growing. He remembers what he did during the rebellion, the things that were destroyed, the people who were harmed, he does not know how he would be able to convince the dragons to accept him back into their fold. Especially if they have the dragons as he has heard whispered. He eventually voices these concerns. “What if they do not accept me?”

The magister laughs. “Oh they will. They are not Aerys, nor are they Rhaegar, they have not underestimated your value.”

At that moment riders appear, one man dressed in a white cloak and silver armour of the Kingsguard, whilst another is dressed with a half chain of a Maester. The magister speaks. “Gentlemen, welcome. You know Lord Eddard, Lord Eddard, this is the Maester of their graces, and their Kingsguard knight.” Ned nods at both men. “They shall take you the rest of the way.” With that the magister claps his hands and two chests are given over, then the man disappears with the rest of his entourage, leaving Ned with the two men, who look at him and then ride. Having no choice, he follows them, they ride in silence until they come to a little boat, they dismount, and just before getting to the boat, the knight stops him and announces. “Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.” People appear on the boat, an old man and his wife, a grizzled man, and a woman who makes Ned gasp, he thought her dead, and then, then there is a sight he does not expect, a boy with silvery hair and purple eyes, eyes like the ones he saw once long ago. “His Grace, King Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of that name.”


	37. Dancing Death

**Jon Snow**

The memories of his first experience of battle continued to plague him. The sounds of men screaming out for loved ones who could not and would not hear them, of men trying desperately to hold onto something that was more than what they had. It was growing day by day, and he was not sure he could handle the continued strain. The battles had been nothing like what the songs and stories had said they would be like, it was naïve of him he knew, to believe that everything was as good as was made out in something people had created and embellished. He was supposed to be more mature and wise than that, yet he had allowed it to consume him, and now it was eating away at him, sucking his energy away, reducing him to nothingness. It was frustrating and aggravating. The family meeting Robb had called for was the one thing he had prepared for to keep his mind off of the gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. But the reasoning behind the meeting was there now. Father was gone, father was dead.

Robb is the first one to speak, breaking the silence, his voice heavy with unshed grief. “Would Joffrey be as mad as to order father’s execution? Surely his mother or uncle would have told him the value father had as a bargaining tool?”

They all look toward the girl who spent the most time with Joffrey, Sansa, his former betrothed. Their sister looks broken and shattered, her voice is uncertain when she replies. “I do not know. The Joffrey I knew would not have done such a thing. But I do not know.” She sounds heartbroken at that, and it is all he can do to take her hand and squeeze comfortingly.

Arya speaks then, her voice filled with all the anger a nine-year-old can muster. “Of course he’d do something like this. This is what Joffrey is. Sansa couldn’t see it before because she was blinded by whatever stupid thing goes on in her brain. But Joffrey would definitely do something like this, he is a monster, and he needs to be put down.”

“We cannot make such bold statements without a plan of action, little sister.” Jon says, speaking for the first time. His sisters look at him confused, but Robb seems to understand what he is saying. “Father might be dead, but they still have Uncle Benjen, and as such we must decide what to do with great caution.”

“Surely you do not mean to suggest that Robb accept the terms offered by Tywin Lannister? For those are no terms at all.” Theon protests, what he’s doing in this meeting, Jon does not know, but he has remained silent on the matter.

“I am not suggesting that Robb accept those terms, I am merely saying that we need to consider our options. We cannot accept some of the suggestions coming from Mormon or the Greatjon. The man is half delirious from his wounds, he is not speaking sense.” Jon points out.

“So are you saying we shouldn’t be independent?” Arya asks, an expression on her face that makes Jon feel a curious mixture of shame and annoyance.

“I am saying that going independent would be a very bad idea.” He responds reasonably.

“Why not?” Arya asks, something like anger filling her voice. “What has the south ever done for us? Apart from take father from us, they took grandfather and uncle Brandon and aunt Lyanna. There is nothing for us in the south, nothing at all.”

Jon runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, from Arya he can understand such a thing, but from a grown man such as Jon Umber, he cannot. As patiently as he can, he responds. “The north might survive on its own through peace time. During war time though, we would be stranded, without an ally. Our food supplies would be cut or destroyed the first chance someone got. We cannot last for long now. It has been too long.”

He can tell Arya wants to argue back, but thankfully, before she can, Robb speaks. “It matters not whether we become independent or not, for you shall be going back to Winterfell, Arya, and you as well Sansa.”

Both Jon and Robb had expected there to be some form or protesting, at least from Sansa if not Arya, and so are pleasantly surprised when both girls merely nod, and Sansa asks. “How will we get there?”

“Theon is heading off to Seagard, you shall be going with him, and from there you shall take a ship into the Flint Cliffs where Lord Flint shall be waiting for you. From there you shall travel by horse to Winterfell, and you shall remain there with mother, Bran and Rickon.” Robb responds firmly.

“And what will you do?” Sansa asks, her voice surprisingly scared, Sansa has never sounded like that for a long time.

Jon sees his brother looking at him for help, and so he replies. “We shall keep fighting. The West is open to us. We shall make Tywin Lannister bleed for what he has done, and we shall get revenge for father.”

“How though?” Sansa asks. “King’s Landing is not in the West; Joffrey is not in the West. Why are you going to the west if you want revenge? That does not make sense.”

Hearing such an aggressive statement coming from a girl who is usually so peaceful unnerves him, he looks at Robb briefly before replying. “The west is the Lannisters home, if we damage it, then there will be less support for them. For someone who cannot hold their own home, who cannot protect their own people, is most definitely not worth fighting for, let alone being King.”

“Just don’t do anything stupid.” Arya says then, to break the silence that had fallen.

“Of course not, this is war, we cannot afford to be stupid.” Jon replies, looking directly at Robb.


	38. Dog

**Lord Eddard Stark**

The Shy Maid was a small boat, barely big enough for the seven people who now used it as a residence. Apart from Ned, himself, there was Haldon a Half Maester from the citadel, what he’d done to be removed before becoming a full Maester, Ned was not sure of, and he was not sure he wanted to know. Then there was Serra, who masqueraded as a Septa, but he knew her, had known her in Harrenhal, and her appearance here was something that was quite odd, but not as odd as one might think. They had been friends, and slowly and surely they had progressed back to that. Then there was Ser Rolly Duckfield who held a White Cloak for services served to the King, there was Jon Connington, a grizzled man, devoted to the King, and someone who Ned had known slightly before the war, they did not like one another. Then there was the King himself, tall, muscular where his father had been lithe, the King had silver hair, and purple eyes, and a confident manner. They were the band who were to restore dragons to Westeros, and Ned did not know where he fit in. The King had deigned to speak with him as they moved across the water.

“So, Lord Stark, I trust you are not finding your presence here to be odd.” The King says with an easy manner, just like his father.

“No, of course not Your Grace, the boat has been most comfortable for me, and as such has allowed me time to think.” Ned replies honestly.

The King smiles at this. “Has it now? And tell me, what has it given you time to think of?”

Ned hesitates for a moment, unsure of how to exactly phrase what he has thought, and so he says it as it comes to him. “I feel that I owe you an apology, though I am not sure why. I did what I needed to do during the rebellion for my family’s survival, I am not sure that I could have done anything differently, but I do believe that there are some things that I would like confirming.”

The King looks amused by his words, something Ned finds quite aggravating, but he keeps his patience and allows the King to say. “And what exactly might that be?”

Ned swallows nervously. “I know now that the plan of which the Spider spoke to me during the dying days of the rebellion came to fruition, but I must ask, where precisely is your sister? If you survived surely she did as well?”

The King hesitates for a moment, as if he is unwilling to answer that question, but then, the man smiles once more. “Ah, yes, Rhaenys, sweet dear Rhaenys, she has asked for a chance to go exploring, to strengthen our connections to the seven kingdoms. And as such, I saw no reason not to allow her to.”

The answer should soothe his concerns, but they do little to actually do that, and so he asks. “And where precisely has she gone Your Grace, if you do not mind me asking?”

“You would question your King?” Jon Connington asks angrily.

“Peace Jon, Lord Stark is allowed to ask, he has a right to know.” The King responds peacefully. “Right now, if I am right, she should be heading toward Dorne, to meet with our uncle, to remind him of our bonds. I do believe that there might have been some issue regarding a betrothal with a Lannister.”

That surprises Ned, a Martell and Lannister betrothal? He could not see how, and then it hits him. “The Imp.”

“My lord?” the King asks curiously.

“The Imp will no doubt be the one responsible for any such betrothal. He knows Dorne is a threat, and as such will be trying desperately to sort that out.” Ned explains. He hesitates for a moment and then asks. “What of your aunt and uncle, why have you not tried to seek them out?”

At this the King looks quite uncomfortable, and it is Jon Connington who speaks. “We have been trying to raise the King and his sister away from the glare of the public eye. Prince Viserys and his siblings were very much exposed to the public, especially the wrath of Robert Baratheon. We needed time to allow the King and his sister to grow.”

“So you left his uncles and aunt out there in the cold?” Ned asks coldly. “I knew you for many things Lord Connington, but I did not think you were a coward.”

Connington bristles. “How dare you Stark! I was not the one who forgot his oath of allegiance. I did not forget who and what I was, and who I owed my place to.”

Before Ned can speak, the King intercedes. “Enough! We are not here to fight amongst ourselves, we are here to discuss where and how we should approach the Seven Kingdoms.” There is a pause as Connington takes a deep breath and nods, whilst Ned also relaxes slightly. Once the King seems convinced that neither of them are going to explode, he speaks once more. “Now, Lord Stark, you have been in Westeros recently, where would be the most secure region to land?”

Ned considers the question put before him and then responds. “Traditionally I would say the crownlands, they have always been loyalist to the Targaryens, however, given recent events, I am not sure that would be a smart idea. I would have to say the Riverlands, though again, it does depend on what sort of army you have.” That last comes out as a question and is answered as such.

“We are heading toward Volon Therys, the Golden Company is sat there waiting for us. We shall use them, and their skill, and from there we shall move. The Riverlands would make the most sense I do believe. Especially with your own son being there.” The King acknowledges.

Ned nods, not voicing just how worried he is about Robb and all that is to come.


	39. Blackfish

**Ser Brynden Tully**

The years were catching up with him. Brynden no longer had the patience to deal with some of the things he would have accepted and moved on with in the past. Foremost amongst them, his niece’s pouting. Something or the other set her off, as it often did, and now Brynden was having to explain to various lords why their Lord’s mother was not meeting with them. The Lord of the Vale was a sickly little boy, who was likely going to die, and that was a thought that both terrified and relieved Brynden, perhaps if the boy went, he’d not have to deal with the constant fear of civil war. Harrold Hardying was more capable, more alive than anyone else, and Brynden knew the boy could be a good Lord with the right guidance. Still, he was not going to sit around and allow his niece to throw off another opportunity for them to get justice for an old friend. That was why he was in her solar, standing before her, doing his best not to lose his patience or his mind.

“Lysa, for the love of the Seven, will you think about this for a moment. You have called these lords here under the pretence of discussing the war raging in the Riverlands, and yet now you have decided not to meet with them. Can you see how that looks? Can you see what you are doing to your son’s reputation, let alone your own?” Brynden asks.

His niece looks at him with her chin turned up. “I am the Lady of the Vale; I can do as I wish uncle. And you have to obey my commands. I do not wish to see them.”

Brynden sighs in frustration. “Why? What has changed in the past three days? You were eager to meet with them before, why have you changed your mind now?”

His niece looks at him with watery eyes, Minisa’s eyes. Her voice quavers. “They all judge me. They look at me and they think they can push me over. They all want what is not theirs.”

Brynden feels his frustration grow at his niece’s ramblings. “Where is this coming from Lysa? Who are these people who are judging you, and what do they want that is not theirs?”

His niece throws her hands up in anger. “Royce, Waynwood, Corbray and Redfort, they all want something that is not theirs. They want my hand in marriage, and they want control over Robin. But I am his mother, I will not give over control of my son.”

Brynden runs a hand over his beard, he’d grown it in the months after arriving in the Vale, shortly after the rebellion. “Lysa, so long as I am here and alive, no one will take Robert from you. But you cannot go on doing this. You must meet with them lords who are expecting you. You must discuss with them the plans we had come up with. We cannot sit on the side anymore, the Riverlands is bleeding, they need us. Edmure needs us.”

He can tell that just for a moment Lysa seems won over, she had always loved Edmure, and treated him as her own son sometimes, and then something changes and her eyes harden. “Edmure has not asked for my help, neither has father. Why should I go help someone who has not asked for it?”

He can hear someone else’s words in his niece’s voice and he snarls in anger. “Lysa, your own nephew has written to you and to the lords of the Vale asking for help fighting the Lannisters. If you do not help him, the lords of the Vale will take action in their own hands and they will take Robert from you.”

“But you would stop them would you not, uncle?” Lysa asks innocently.

Brynden sighs, he knows this game. “I would try Lysa, but I am just one man, and an old one at that. You know what needs to be done, so why do you refuse to do it?”

His niece looks at him with her big blue eyes, Minisa’s eyes and he thinks of her mother, and his heart aches, he remembers the promise he made to her long ago, and he thinks he has failed. His niece looks at him and then speaks. “They never helped me.”

Brynden leans forward and asks. “Who? Who never helped you?”

“Father. He never helped me, he never cared for me. I was an extra burden to him, I was not a boy, and I was not Cat, I was just someone else, another burden.” Lysa replies her voice sounding so small that it breaks his heart, it makes him curse Hoster once more.

“You know that is not true Lysa. He might have been stern, but he was always like that. He loved you, he loves you, he always has.” Brynden responds.

“Then why did he stop me from marrying Petyr? Why could he not let me be happy? Cat was to marry Brandon Stark, and that made her happy, why could he not let me be happy?” Lysa asks in a little voice.

Brynden sighs, this was what he had most feared. “I…Your father was never the one to go for happiness, he loved your mother, but that came afterwards. And yes he loved you, and he wanted you to be happy, but with someone of your rank, not with someone like Baelish. That Baelish boy was a mess, he was a snake, he was not worthy of you.”

“He loved me!” Lysa responds. “He told me so himself!”

Brynden thinks over what he heard about his niece and Baelish when they were children and what he saw himself, and he sighs. “He might have said that to you, but he used you Lysa, he always used you.”

He can tell his niece wants to protest, can tell by the way her shoulders straighten and her mouth hardens, but then something changes, and her shoulders slacken and her voice is soft. “You are right. As always uncle. I will speak with the lords and lady.”


	40. Desire

****

**Ser Jorah Mormont**

The ship was moving with a lot of alarming rates, the waves were kicking up closer and closer, the nearer they got to Dragonstone and home. Or maybe that was Jorah, his heart was hammering. The thing he had wished for nearly nine years, was about to happen now. Lynesse the woman he had loved for as long as he had known her was being brought to him, courtesy of the King. Jorah felt his breath catch as she was dragged in, wearing nothing but a rag, she was dropped in the floor in front of him. The King spoke then. “She is all yours now Ser Jorah, ask her what you will. And decide whether she gets the blade or gets to live.” The King stands to the back, his guards with him.

Jorah stares at his former wife, drinking her in, her blond hair is still as luscious as he remembers, her cheeks are rose tinted, as they would often get after she laughed or drank, and Gods she still makes his heart beat quicker. He looks at her and then asks her. “Are you well?” It is an odd question he knows, but it is all he could think to ask.

His former wife laughs. “I was. Before I was dragged from my home.”

Jorah swallows slightly, he remembers Lynesse’s temper well. When things had started to get rough, they would fight, and they both had bruises in the morning, emotional and physical. He swallows once more and then responds. “I am sorry for that. But I would ask, do you wish to go back to Lys, to your lover?”

A part of him hopes she says yes, he does not think he is as ready for this confrontation as he once had been, but then he sees Lynesse shake her head and he feels easier. “No, there is no point. He would not welcome me back now.” She tilts her head, and straightens her shoulders, bringing on the air that had made her so irresistible to him in the beginning. “So, tell me Jorah, what do you want?”

Jorah hesitates, he thinks he knows what he wants, but for some reason he cannot find the words to say it. As the silence stretches on, memories begin playing through his mind. Memories of them laughing and kissing in the sunlight, memories of them dancing and singing, he feels a pang in his chest, and that is when he knows. “I want to know why you left. Where did it go so wrong?”

He expects derision from Lynesse, that was what he had gotten last time he had asked that question, but this time she sighs. “I do not know. I was a naïve little girl back then. I wanted things, and I thought life was a song.” There is an air of sadness about her, for she then says. “I know better now.”

Jorah tenses then, it might have been nearly a decade since they were with one another, but he still knows all of her tells, and he feels as if there is something much deeper and darker to what she is saying, or rather what she is not saying. He finds himself asking. “Did he hurt you?” he cannot remember the name of the man she chose over him, and he will not bother to remember it.

Lynesse is silent for a moment. “Not at first, but he became demanding, and then I just wanted to go home, back to the Hightower, but none of my family would have me back.”

Of course they would not, the Hightowers were an old and proud house, Leyton Hightower had not approved of his daughter marrying someone like Jorah, but had agreed, because it made his daughter happy, that things fell apart later, Jorah thinks his goodfather would have laughed in his daughter’s face for wanting to come home. “SO what did you do?” he finds himself asking despite himself.

“I stayed and I found ways to cope. I started working, using skills I had thought I’d forgotten.” His wife replies, the thought of his wife, slender and beautiful working, doing the things she had shunned when they were actually together, makes him laugh, he cannot help himself, he laughs, and he feels his heart stutter when she laughs alongside him as well.

Eventually they stop laughing, and reality returns. He knows he has a decision to make, the King is there, in the shadows, waiting and watching, he knows a part of him still loves his wife, and that another part of him hates her, but he cannot separate the two, he needs to know whether she feels the same. “Do you care for him?” he asks instead.

His wife’s silence is like a hammer blow, but then relief comes when she shakes her head. “I do not. Not for a long time.” A pause, then she says. “I used to think about you, about us, when I was alone and feeling lonely. I used to remember everything, the good and the bad. And I missed it, I missed us.”

Jorah walks toward her then, and puts his hands on her shoulders. “What are you saying?” he feels hope bloom in his chest. “Are you saying you want to get back together?”

His wife puts her hand on his cheek and nods. “I am Jorah. I know things will not be as they were between us. But we are both older and wiser now, perhaps we could work things out, together?”

“I would like nothing more than to do that.” Jorah responds.

His wife smiles, and it is one of, if not the best thing he has ever seen. “Then let us give it a try.”

Jorah smiles, leans in and kisses his wife, truly kisses her, and feels as if his heart is singing, when he pulls away, the King is nodding. “Good very good. So now that that is settled let us progress shall we?”

Jorah bows his head, and his wife curtsies. “Of course Your Grace. What would you like to discuss?”

The King smiles. “Why the Hightower family of course.”


	41. Blackwater Part 1

**Tyrion Lannister**

The war was teetering, constantly changing and flowing. One moment they would learn about another victory for Robb Stark, the next they would learn about a victory for Jaime. How they were actually doing in the war, Tyrion was not really sure, all he knew was that there were some alliances that were beginning to fall through, and that was something that was going to keep him awake, long after this battle finished. That was if they even survived this battle. Tyrion knew they outnumbered Stannis, the forces of the crownlands as well as the city watch were theirs, whilst Stannis had only the forces of Dragonstone and some sellswords and sellsails. There was little standing in their way, but there were reports that the Stormlords had finally mobilised, under the leadership of one of the Estermonts, just as Renly said they would, who they would fight for Tyrion did not know. And as such, he was not liking the way things were looking right now either.

“Tell me the figures again.” He barks at Ser Jacelyn Bywater as they stand on the main wall, watching Stannis’s ships approaching.

“We have some twelve thousand men, ten thousand crownlords, one thousand members of the city watch, one thousand red cloaks. But the city watch are not as well trained as I would have liked. I do not know if they will hold together when the fighting gets tough.” Ser Jacelyn replies.

Tyrion looks at his nephew, the King, who stands there in a suit of glittering armour with red rubies on it, Rhaegar had worn rubies on his armour when he’d ridden off to fight Robert Baratheon, Jaime had told him. Jaime, his brother was far away now, as was their father, it was left to the dwarf to try and hold King’s Landing. “And where are the men positioned?” he asks, simply because he thinks it is the right thing to ask.

“They are spread out over four gates as you asked my lord hand.” The captain of the city watch replies.

Tyrion nods. “Good.” He replies, with luck the wildfire will do in for Stannis and his men before they can pose a significant enough threat for the city. At the last moment he asks. “Any word of where the Stormlords are?”

There is a brief moment of silence as a sound echoes from the bay, but eventually Ser Jacelyn replies. “Last reports had them marching toward the Kingswood. I am not sure where they are now my lord, I am sorry.”

“That is quite alright.” Tyrion replies, just as a horn sounds, signalling the beginning of the battle on the waves. He watches as the ships, loaded with wildfire are moved out onto the water, toward the ships of the Dragonstone fleet, toward Stannis, he finds himself praying that the man dies during the blaze. He counts down the seconds, they feel like agonising moments, and then the blaze begins, one ship, and then another, and another, all of them go up like matches, and he laughs slightly at the shocked expression on Bywater’s face. But onward they go.

The ships continued to burn, painting a green light on the water, driving all but the basest of thoughts from his mind. Somewhere close by his nephew was cheering as were the men at his side, two knights of the Kingsguard at his side, including the Lord Commander, Ser Barristan. Still, Tyrion was not convinced that they had won yet, and when he sees ships moving through the fire, the eternal blaze, he begins swallowing nervously, the closer they get to being able to dismount their men, he begins barking orders, for archers to be ready, for the trebuchets to be prepared, for men at arms to have their swords and spears and whatever other weapons they hold ready. The first men who land on the ground, amazed at their own survival are quickly ended by the spree of arrows and rocks that Tyrion has unleashed on them, at least that is what happens to those who land near him. There are plenty more landing elsewhere, plenty of men who will test the defences of King’s Landing, filled with a desire to prove themselves as they have survived hell.

Tyrion looks at his nephew and sees a blanket look of fear on the boy’s face, he thinks he should say something, but what he could say, he does not know. For once words escape him, and just before he can think of anything at all, the ground shakes, and he curses. So it seems that they had brought battering rams with them. Very well. “Archers fire at will.” He roars, and watches as arrows rain down from the sky, he listens with approval as men fall to the ground screaming in agony and pain, but still the ground continues to shake, he knows that they will break through the gate. “We need to get men there.” He barks out to no one in particular, he draws his axe and moves down the stairs, hoping and praying men will follow him. Just as he gets to the bottom of the stairs, the gates burst open and men coming pouring in.

His axe meets steel soon enough, chafing through the constraints put upon it, he cuts and hacks at men’s legs, watching and laughing as they scream and grunt in pain. More of his men, wearing Lannister crimson are at his side, fighting for him, he might not be the heir to Casterly Rock, but he is still a Lannister, and at least now he knows what that counts for. He swings his axe, cutting through the pain of his own shoulders, as he is knocked and jostled around. Through it all, he thinks of staying alive, of the whores he will fuck when this is all done. It brings a smile to his face, but he knows that unless something major happens they are doomed. Somewhere amongst the chaos, there is more created, when he looks he sees two white cloaks fleeing the scene his Kingly nephew amongst them, he curses his nephew, just when they needed him to hold ground the most. The men start breaking, and before he can rally them, he is knocked out by a fiery sword, a stag rearing its legs before him.


	42. Blackwater Part 2

****

**King Stannis I Baratheon**

The wildfire was a neat trick, Stannis would give them that, it had damaged a lot of his ships, and cost him men, but he did not mind that. Men would always die during battle, that they had died fighting to ensure his right was upheld was proof of their loyalty. He saw the city walls beginning to shake under the barrage of his men, and he gave a rare smile, but as his helm was on, none could see it, all the better, he had a reputation to uphold. His armour was bathed in light, the light of the red god, so Melisandre had said, he did not know whether he believed the words that she whispered to him at night, he did not much care, he would have his throne, and he would get it now. As the gates were thrown open, Stannis spurred his horse on, dragging Lightbringer out of its sheathe, watching it glow and lead the way.

The men who ride alongside him were once Targaryen men, he knew that when he took over Dragonstone, when Robert denied him his right and gave it to his brother. He managed to change their loyalties through persuasion and through force. Now they ride at his side, and they do his bidding as is their duty. He swings his sword, cutting down some fool boy, who wears a lion on his armour. The lions had abandoned all sense when they decided to keep their bastard spawn on the throne. It was not right, nor was it true to deny his right, he swung his sword once more, watching the light fade from another cunt’s eyes. He remembered his first battle, the Siege of Storm’s End had come after it, when some fools had tried to take Storm’s End through guile. He had killed them all and hung their entrails up in the woods afterward, as a warning. Robert had thought that too much, but Robert was always a fool, and now his brother was dead.

The men keep riding toward him, swinging their weapons, he laughs at their pathetic attempts to fight him, do they not know he is their rightful King, and he will not be cowed by boys wearing armour three times their size? He cuts them down with nary an effort. He moves onward, laughing at how poor the defences of the city are, they have not thought through their defence, clearly they felt that he would not survive the wildfire, but even the fire knows when to bow before its King. He moves onward, swinging his sword, the heat of a thousand bodies making him sweat in his armour, but onward he continues, his sword calling out for more blood. On and on it goes, the red keep stands in the distance, atop the hill of a man who was a sinner, but a just King. Stannis moves forward, cutting down more and more of the fools who are his people, they are not putting down their swords and he does not understand why. Do they not understand, that he has come to relieve them from Lannister tyranny? His spies had told him that the people of the city were calling out for more help. Why then do they fight?

The chaos continues, fuelling his anger and his energy. These fools continue to fight, to deny him his right, he barks out orders, and watches as they are carried out. The men and women who stand in his way are cut down and butchered, as are their children. It might not be the honourable thing to do, but it is the just thing to do. He would not allow for there to be criminals amongst his people when this is all said and done. The Lannister defence is weakening, slackening in their regard for anything other than themselves. In the distance he hears a scramble and a scream, he wonders what it could be and calls out to one of the red knights. “What is happening over there?” it takes a moment for the knight to think through the thing and then look for answers.

“The boy pretender is fleeing Sire, the men of his guard are fleeing.” The knight replies.

Stannis smiles, he always knew his nephew had no guts. “We ride for them then. We must get the boy.” He pushes onward, his sword leading the way, almost as if it has a mind of its own. He cuts down another boy, someone not much older than Renly was when the siege of Storm’s End began, Renly, the brother who he tried to love, and failed. The brother who has spent the last year as a Lannister prisoner. Perhaps with time they can heal the breach that has developed between them. He hopes so, he remembers Renly as the boy he once was, he needs his brother by his side, he will need him by his side when the fighting is done. Stark is still at large, but perhaps the boy can be made to bend the knee when the boy’s father’s killer is dead. He moves onward, he sees a white knight standing there, waiting to prevent him getting to the boy pretender. Ser Meryn Trant he thinks, he swings and the man crumples to the ground. A roar goes up then, they are close, he can smell it from here.

As they canter through the breech left by the death of the Kingsguard, Stannis smells the air, it stinks of rot, of puss and of piss, and fear, but there is no sight of the boy, he growls in frustration and then barks his orders out. They ride through the gaps, cutting men down wherever they appear, he is determined to make his way through it all. His armour creaks and groans, and his body moans within him, but he does not care. They push their way through the masses, through the hill and upward, until they arrive at the Red Keep itself, there is a brief struggle but then they are through. He rides through the ancient castle, before coming to the throne, he stops, sheathes Lightbringer, and dismounts. He walks up the steps of the throne, before turning, and in his armour sitting down atop the throne, his men cheer, a tired sound, but he removes his helm and smiles, he has come home.

 


	43. Heart's Desire

****

**Lord Robb Stark**

The war was progressing, they had struck hard at Oxcross, taking the Lannister army amassing under Stafford Lannister by surprise and by storm, then they had gone burning and pillaging through the west. Robb suspected that much like their father would have, that Jon did not approve of that, and frankly Robb was slightly sick of that. This was war, there was no time or place for trivial things such as that, they had to take resources for their army, and so they did. If the people of the West had a problem with it, then they should fight alongside them and not against them. Frankly, Robb had more pressing concerns. The Greatjon had died of wounds taken during one of their earlier battles, his wounds taking on an infection, his son Smalljon was now Lord of Last Hearth and demanded a place as a commander, despite having less acumen than his father had had, and so Robb had had to give him something. Rickard Karstark was grieving over the loss of his heir Harrion, and had taken to reckless charges during battles, Roose Bolton remained there, calm and efficient, but Robb did not trust him. Still, they had to deal with new developments and so the war council had convened.

“We are currently plummeting through the Westerlands resources my lord.” Maege Mormont states something akin to glee on her face. “Soon enough we shall have more than enough gold and food sources to feed our armies and those of the Riverlands many times over.”

“Good.” Robb states, happy with that, and more. “And what of the opposing forces massing? Who commands them, and how many men do they have?”

It is Roose Bolton who speaks in answer to his query, his voice soft, barely above a whisper. “A Lannister cousin, I believe his name is Damon, is preparing the forces who are massing in opposition to you my lord. As of last estimates, they have roughly six thousand men gathering under the lion banner.”

“Only six thousand men? That is nothing, we have four times their numbers.” Smalljon says laughing.

Robb shoots the Lord of Last Hearth a cold glance. “We might have more men than them, but they know this land better than we do. If anything, our continued presence here will only inspire more to join them.”

“SO what do you suggest then my lord?” Jon asks, speaking for the first time, and Robb fears he might bring up his issues with their policy of burning and pillaging so far. Instead, he asks. “Do you suggest we leave for the Riverlands, and try and encourage another battle between ourselves and Tywin Lannister?”

Robb thinks over his brother’s question, remembering what had happened before they had ventured into the West. They’d fought an army commanded by Ser Jaime Lannister, it was a fraction of theirs, but had inflicted great damage, it was not supposed to be a victory battle for the Lannisters, merely a point proving one. Robb had nearly died during that battle, clashing blades with Lannister, only to be saved by reinforcements that had forced Lannister to retreat. Blinking to drive the memories away, he says. “No, we cannot afford to allow there to be two armies coming near us. We shall continue as we had planned, to move toward the Rock and to force Tywin Lannister’s hand once more.” Here he pauses, grimacing at the news that had come from Riverrun written in his uncle’s triumphant hand. “Ser Edmure might have defeated Tywin Lannister’s army once, but I think a second time, he will come toward us with his and his son’s army.”

“Do you think so?” Jon asks. “With King’s Landing having fallen to Stannis Baratheon, do you not think he would focus on King’s Landing instead of here, and us?”

“A man who cannot hold his own home, does not deserve the support of his lords. Tywin Lannister knows this as well as anyone else. He will come here as Lord Robb says.” Galbert Glover says pointedly, looking at Robb with some meaning.

Robb blushes slightly, the ironborn invasion of the north had come as a surprise to him, he had thought Theon might be able to convince his father of the good reason for their alliance. It seemed he had not, there had been no word from Theon and Deepwood Motte, Moat Cailin and Torrhen’s Square had all fallen. He was getting worried, but he could not leave the war in the west half finished, and he was determined to make that point clear. “Lord Galbert speaks true. Tywin Lannister will come charging back west to ensure that his home is secure. And when he does we shall be waiting for him.”

Again, it is Jon who asks him the difficult question. “And how do you plan on doing that my lord? Tywin Lannister and his son will know the Westerlands far better than we ever could. Should we choose to engage in a pitched battle, there is every chance we could lose.”

“And there is ever chance we could win.” Robb responds frustrated with his brother’s constant questioning.

It seems his brother will not let up, though, for next he asks. “And now Stannis is crowned and anointed as King, will you bend the knee to him?”

This draws murmurs of disquiet from some of his lords, with Smalljon saying. “A man who would allow a foreign witch to burn the godswood is no King of mine.”

Maege Mormont concurs. “It is said the man has been drawing more advice from the witch than his own lords. How can we trust him, if he does that?”

“He is the crowned and anointed King. The Faith has recognised him, as have the people of King’s Landing and the Stormlords. We cannot face them on our own.” Jon points out.

Robb slams his fist down on the table, his anger getting the better of him. “We are not facing a King with the entirety of the kingdoms behind him. The West is under its own danger, the Riverlands are with us, and the Vale shall be soon. Dorne and the Reach remain neutral. Stannis Baratheon can remain in King’s Landing.” He knows eventually he will have to decide what King he is fighting for, and that thought terrifies him.


	44. Lady Mother

****

**Lady Catelyn Stark**

Ned was dead, executed by a boy King, who had once meant to marry their daughter. She grieved for her husband as surely as she did love him, and yet Catelyn knew she could not give herself to the grief she felt. Their children needed her, Sansa who was trying so hard to help her and be a lady, Arya who was headstrong and only growing more so, Bran, who was fighting hard to be a man when he was but a boy, and little Rickon who was no more than a babe. They needed her more than ever, and she worried for Robb and Jon, fighting a man’s war in the south. Not for the first time she cursed herself forever encouraging Ned to go south, what she thought they’d achieve by that she no longer knew. All she knew was that she was a widow now, and that her children had no father. There were offers of marriage coming in, but she refused them all, she would not marry ever again, she would not let anyone touch her the way Ned had. There were many things she would not do, but there was one thing she would do, and that was see to the defence of the north.

“The situation on the western coast continues to worsen my lady.” Ser Rodrik says, his face contorted in barely contained rage. “The Ironborn are strengthening their hold over Deepwood Motte and are selling any who do not bend to them and their salt King, into slavery. The people in the Wolfswood are beginning for help.”

“What action have the Forresters taken?” Catelyn asks, she remembers Lord Forrester, a big bold man, who liked a fight, she knows he was old but he was always ready for a fight.

“The Forresters are going through their own internal issues right now my lady.” Ser Rodrik replies, Catelyn raises an eyebrow, she does not understand how such a thing could happen now of all times. “Lord Forrester is old, and his son and grandsons are fighting in the south, whilst his nephew and his nephew’s family are angling to take over Ironrath, once the old man has passed. Lord Forrester’s good daughter is doing her best to prevent that. Hence the ironborn being able to encroach further inward.”

Catelyn sighs exasperated. “Do they not understand what foolery that is? They are endangering their own safety by continuing to feud.”

Ser Rodrik nods. “I am sure that if they were thinking rationally they would, but they are not, and as such, this requires firm hand from Winterfell in order to prevent further encroachment.”

Catelyn sighs. “I wish that we could send more men, but as it is there are men trying to take back Torrhen’s Square and men making a move for Moat Cailin. We cannot ignore the fact that Theon Greyjoy sits in a cell here, because he tried to take Winterfell. I cannot and will not allow my home to be left undefended.”

Maester Luwin speaks then. Ever the voice of wisdom. “Lady Catelyn is right Ser Rodrik. Theon Greyjoy was nearly successful in his attempt to take Winterfell, had you and the men meant for Torrhen’s Square not been here, there is a chance his plan would have worked. We cannot send more men to places where they might not be needed in the near future.”

Catelyn sees Ser Rodrik grimace, and she knows he is thinking back to that letter. “You think the man meant it then?”

Catelyn thinks over the letter and its contents, whispers of a time long passed in the north, before even her husband’s father’s time, the man had stirred once more. “I think that we cannot rule it out. Regardless, the Ironborn are a menace, but they are contained to the coast for now. Once Robb returns or this threat passes, we can better deal with them then.”

The question she has been dreading since she said that statement comes next. “What happens if Lord Robb does not return or this threat does not pass, my lady? What then? The north can only wait for so long. Deepwood Motte is under foreign occupation, as is Moat Cailin. Torrhen’s Square might fall easily enough, but House Tallhart is on its knees. There is little stopping some of the more rebellious lords from doing just that.”

Catelyn closes her eyes then, remembering the word that had come, Benfred Tallhart dead, slain by Greyjoy and his uncle, little Eddara’s head dashed against a rock as an offering to the drowned god. Leobald and his sons were in Winterfell, and they were desperate for revenge, or rather Leobald’s sons were in Winterfell, the man had led the party to retake his castle. Catelyn takes a deep breath and then asks. “Do you think Ryswell and Dustin will rebel then, if we do nothing?”

Ser Rodrik nods. “Most definitely, they have never been on the best of terms with Winterfell since the rebellion, and with Lord Eddard dead, and Lord Robb in the south, they will sense an opportunity too good to miss.”

“And with Bolton’s son there whispering in their ears, they will be hard pressed not to.” Catelyn surmises. “What do you suggest then? We cannot leave Winterfell undefended, not with everything happening as it is.”

Ser Rodrik tugs on his whiskers in thought, then his eyes light up as a thought comes to him. “The harvest feast has been and gone, that is true, but if you perhaps invite the Ryswells, Dustins and Manderlys to Winterfell alongside Bolton’s son, for a feast to celebrate good harmony and to prepare for an incursion against the ironborn, that could do much to restore good faith.”

Catelyn nods though she is slightly uncertain, still, if it does more to help heal any potential wounds then she is all for it. “Very well then. Maester Luwin, send the ravens out tonight. I will have the cooks prepare something for this feast.” She pauses, watching as the Maester makes a note of what she has said, that done she turns and says. “Unless there is anything else?” both men shake their head and she replies. “Very well. Good day Sers, I will be with my children.” With that she walks out of the room to where she knows her children will be smiling as she hears their laughter.


	45. Slave Holder

**Benjen Stark**

The sounds of battle were beginning to fade. The sounds of his torture were beginning to fade, though the scars, both mental and physical still remained. The Lannisters had not gone easy on him. They had torn away at every defence he could find, to try and gather information on plans he did not know. They wanted to know where Ned was, but Benjen did not know, he had thought his brother was in Winterfell, had told them as much, but nothing had come through from that. They had taken a finger when that had happened. Then they had beaten and bruised him. Tyrion had seen him and said nothing, and Benjen had sworn a bloody revenge for that, his friend the imp, the man would fall for that. The Blackwater had come and gone, the Lannisters had fled, and the man now in charge of King’s Landing had not come to see him, until today, he’d suddenly been dragged out of his cell and moved to a new room, a room he could barely see through his swollen eyes, but he bowed all the same.

Stannis Baratheon was not the most patient of men it seemed, for his words were harsh and stern when he spoke. “Benjen Stark, we meet once more.”

Benjen sketches a bow. “Indeed we do Your Grace. I had a feeling that we would be meeting once more, before the years were over.”

The new King of Westeros snorts. “Spare me your flattery Stark. We both know I am not the Baratheon you wish to be speaking to. For now, though, I am the one you shall be speaking to.”

Benjen frowns, the man could not know could he? “Of course Your Grace.”

“So tell me Stark, what did you learn when the Lannisters questioned you. I know you listened to their words and their actions. So tell me, what did you learn?” Stannis Baratheon asks him.

Benjen considers the question, uncertain of how to exactly phrase what he wants to say, but eventually finding the words. “I believe Sire, that they were most terrified of you.”

Stannis snorts once more, a sound that Benjen is quite unaccustomed to hearing from the older Baratheon brother. “Indeed. Well that would make sense. But what I meant was, what did you learn from them? I know they tortured you, but this is Cersei and Jaime Lannister we are speaking of here, they would have wanted you to know some of what they were planning, so as to rub it in your face.”

Benjen thinks hard, he tries to think through the haze of pain and dizziness that forms up most of his time in chains. Eventually something sticks out. “They were planning on using the Faith to discredit you. Word of your conversion to the Red God was to be used as your downfall. They hoped it would bring about resistance for when you tried to take the city.”

Stannis does something completely unexpected then, he laughs, as in truly laughs, a deep rumbling sound that leaves Benjen shaken slightly. “Ah, and that did not work well for them. Their friends and allies deserted them when I took the city, and now their most reliable sources of information have their heads sitting on spikes.” Surprise must show on his face, for Stannis responds in the affirmative. “Yes, Pycelle and Rosby have their heads sitting on spikes at this very moment.”

“What about Baelish?” Benjen asks.

At this Benjen senses hesitancy in Stannis Baratheon. “The man has his uses yet; he will be required to bring the Vale into line.”

Benjen laughs. “Surely you do not believe the nonsense he spouts about being able to control Lysa Arryn, Your Grace? The man has been played by Lysa Arryn from the moment he abandoned her to Jon Arryn.”

Something passes through Stannis then, Benjen senses it in the way his breathing sharpens, but then when the man speaks, his voice is calm and collected as if there is nothing wrong. “We shall see. Regardless, that is not why I have come here. I have had you brought here to give you a choice.”

“And what is that choice Your Grace?” Benjen asks, though he already knows what the man will say.

As expected, Stannis Baratheon takes a deep breath, Benjen knows the man is doing his best not to grit his teeth. “You can either bend the knee to me and be raised up as a lord of the court, or you can refuse to bend and be executed as a traitor.”

Blunt and to the point, just as he had expected. Benjen asks the questions that most matter to him. “And what of my nephews, what will happen to them? They are fighting the Lannisters now, but if I have heard you correctly, they have yet to bend the knee to you. What happens to them? And will I be forced to give up my gods?”

He can tell that the question disturbs Stannis, the man does not and has not ever liked answering such difficult questions, hence why he remained on Robert’s council for so long, despite never agreeing with his brother’s position on things. Now he remains silent for a long time, so long in fact that Benjen has begun to drift off into the nightmares that count for his sleep now, when suddenly Stannis speaks. “Your nephews will be fighting for me should you bend the knee to me. And you shall not be forced to change your gods. I am many things, but a fool I am not.”

Benjen considers his options, knowing as he does that doing this deed now will make things much easier and safer for his nephews, he swallows his pride and gets down on one knee and says. “Very well then. I, Benjen Stark, do hereby pledge allegiance to you Stannis of the House Baratheon, first of your name and King of Westeros. I do swear by ice and fire.”

Stannis gives him something that passes for a smile and says. “Rise Benjen Stark, and do you lord’s bidding.” Benjen rises, hiding a sly smile behind his hand.


	46. Snow Fall

**Jon Snow**

Jon did not agree with a lot of what his brother was doing in the Westerlands. Allowing the men to pillage and plunder through the land was not going to win them any friends here. But it seemed Robb was far more content to send a message than to actually achieve what it was they’d marched south to achieve. He got the feeling his brother was paddling in a pool, not sure how to leave, and not sure if he wanted to leave. That worried Jon, he was not sure what to do to convince his brother to head back north, he knew Robb still wanted revenge, hell he wanted revenge, but Joffrey no longer sat on the iron throne, there was another who sat there, another who had Uncle Benjen, but something was stopping his brother from bending the knee and giving them a chance to go home. What it was, Jon did not know, and he was not sure how to ask, or whether he should ask.

He did not know what was happening between him and his brother, or to his brother in general, but things were changing. His brother no longer came to him to seek advice, his brother remained to himself, seeking counsel in the godswood of the western fortresses, and occasionally speaking to other lords, but not to him. It was a sad thought; one he was very annoyed about. But there was nothing he could do, his brother was his liege lord, and he was honour bound to follow orders. Hence why he was commanding a battalion of soldiers out on a raiding mission. They had learned that Jaime Lannister or a Lannister band was coming toward their position, and Robb had asked him to go and cause a bit of chaos. He had left gladly determined to avoid the simmering tension in his brother’s eyes, and so here he was, mounted atop a horse, Ghost at his side.

They ride through barren wasteland, a once prosperous and beautiful land now reduced to rubble due to the efforts of his brother and himself and their men. The thought causes shame to course through him. War is not the game he thought it would be, perhaps that is what has caused all of this. Robb must be dealing with everything a lot worse than him, and he himself is not dealing with it well. He does not know, he does not have time to think over it, before there are horns sounding and the Lannister army they have been tracking for days comes into view. Jon follows the plan, and draws his sword, and moves toward the enemy. They come bounding toward him, something intent on their faces, the crash comes and all hell is unleashed. Men are all around him, swearing, cursing, doing what they can to remain alive. He is amongst them, swinging his sword as if it is the beacon to a better future. He does not know what is there within a man, that when he fights, all sense goes. All Jon knows now, is that he has to live.

The enemy progresses through their lines, as planned, they swing, they fight, they claw, the surroundings get hotter, so much hotter, and he feels as if he is baking alive in his armour, but he keeps going. Jon has never been one to stop fighting when there was a fight to be had. He keeps going, he sees images, boys no older than Bran cut down before his eyes, by him, and it will haunt him, but he keeps going. Duty and honour dictate he keeps fighting. His men are at his side, swinging their weapons, slashing away, cutting life from men just doing their duty. He keeps going, fighting the urge to be sick, the urge to scream, he keeps going. He does not know if this will make a change, but he keeps going. Through it all, Ghost is at his side, snarling, tearing chunks out of people and they continue, working liking a well-oiled weapon.

He sees Ghost go down, and something in him breaks. He roars a challenge, and cuts down the next man he sees, and then another man, and another. The plan is abandoned. No one hurts Ghost, no one! He swings his sword, chasing after the person who did the damage to Ghost, and he comes after him, they meet in the middle, but then the man disappears behind the rush of more men. Jon howls in frustration and moves. Cutting through the people who get in his way, it is a rush, and there is no one there. He growls again, and moves, his helmet is sticky with sweat, his armour is chafing him, he is bleeding in several places, but he keeps going.  Ghost must be avenged, he moves and moves, but there is no sight of the man, nothing at all. He growls in anger, and pushes through, determined to have his revenge.

Pain shoots through him then, he looks up and sees just how far away he is from the rest of his battalion, they are immersed in the fighting, none know just how far away their commander is. He knows he could try to get back to them, but there are men coming toward him, and Ghost is there, lying whimpering before him. He dismounts from his horse and rushes towards Ghost, he stands before his wolf, his sword raised, his chest heaving as the enemy comes toward him. He swats away blows, takes some, kills some, and keeps going. He stands in front of Ghost, he remembers what happened at Ruby Ford, he remembers what happened to Sansa’s wolf and he knows he cannot let that happen to Ghost. He fights and fights. Bodies lie near him at the end, he is on his knees, his men are still fighting. He slumps to the ground, a voice laughing in his ear. “You have done well, but now you are mine.” He sees a hooded man and then the world disappears.


	47. Feast

**Lady Catelyn Stark**

They had come as she knew they would. Bolton, Ryswell and Dustin, Lord Wyman had begged off from attending due to his illness, and she had accepted that. There was no doubt that Lord Wyman was loyal, it was the other three she was concerned about. They had all come with men, as if they were expecting some sort of military action, she was not sure what to make of that, and it worried her slightly. But she put it out of her mind, Lord Ryswell was friendly, whilst Lady Barbrey was cold, but that was what she had expected. Roose Bolton’s second son Balthasar had come with six hundred men, and he worried her slightly, there was something off about him, but what it was she did not know. Regardless, the feast had begun, and she was determined to keep a good face.

“I am thankful you could all make it here; I know that things are not progressing as well as one might have hoped on the western coast.” Catelyn says, she knows how to get Lord Ryswell to her side, he is an old fool really.

“That is quite alright my lady. We would never deny an invitation from Winterfell.” Ryswell responds, blustering, his face flushed. “I do think that we do need to discuss the issues on the western coast though.”

“Of course.” Catelyn concedes. Slowly, deliberately she says. “I have sent men under the command of Leobald Tallhart to force the ironborn from Torrhen’s Square, the man was very willing to do such a deed, considering the horrors they dealt to his nephew and niece.”

“That is all well and good my lady.” Lady Barbrey says, her tone sharp and crisp. “Torrhen’s Square will fall if it has not already. But what I want to know, what we all want to know, is what are you going to do about Deepwood Motte and Moat Cailin? After all the longer the ironborn hold Deepwood Motte, the longer they have access to the Wolfswood, and the more chance they have to build more ships.”

Roger Ryswell, heir to the Rills speaks up in agreement with his sister. “I agree with Lady Barbrey. Torrhen’s Square is not the issue here. The issue is the continued ironborn occupation of such a valuable castle and its land. The Forresters and their men are fighting amongst one another, and will continue to do so without strong hands guiding them. Something Winterfell has been lacking, as of late.”

Catelyn hears the insult in the man’s words, but she keeps her face neutral. “And what would you suggest I do, master Roger? Winterfell is the capital of the north. Theon Greyjoy nearly tried to take the castle, it was only because we had more men here that he failed to do so. Would you advise that I leave Winterfell undefended?”

At this, Bolton leans forward, his eyes intent, and Catelyn sees Arya bristle slightly at the change in his attention. “Tell me Lady Catelyn, what has happened to Greyjoy? Has he been executed as befits a traitor, or is he still sitting in a cell?”

Catelyn senses a trap here, but she answers honestly. “He remains in a cell here, waiting Lord Stark’s judgement.” It still feels strange calling her son Lord Stark, but that is what he is now, with Ned dead.

Bolton nods. “A wise decision, but I must ask my lady, do you know when exactly Lord Stark shall be returning northwards? At present it seems as if he has forgotten about the north and is more focused on winning some acclaim for himself in the south.”

Catelyn bristles then. “Have you forgotten who it was that brought this state of war to the north master Balthasar? The Lannisters are still alive and well, and they are not yet deal with the suffering our people suffered under them.” She knows it sounds aggressive and weak, but that is what Robb had said to her in a letter, and she needs to defend her son.

“The Lannisters do not hold King’s Landing anymore my lady.” Lady Barbrey points out. “Stannis Baratheon holds the capital now, and has purged the Lannister influence from court. The Lannisters and their children sit somewhere in hiding. Has Lord Stark forgotten that? Has he sworn an oath of allegiance to Stannis?” there is a pointed silence, and when she does not answer it, Barbrey responds. “Of course he has not. He wanders around the Westerlands, burning and pillaging, ignoring the plight of his people here.”

Her eyes narrow in suspicion at the lady’s words. “What are you suggesting my lady? That Lord Stark abandon a campaign in the south and come rushing back north, when we are perfectly capable of dealing with the ironborn here? We have more than enough men to deal with them and expel them.”

“So then why has the word not come from Winterfell?” Roger Ryswell asks. “We have waited for the summons to come from Winterfell, but it has not come. Instead we have seen the ironborn take more of a hold over the western coast, slaughtering good and innocent northmen, whilst Winterfell sits in on itself cowering in fear.”

The doors to the great hall open and men begin filing in, but they are not Stark men, Catelyn looks around and she sees the same look of worry on Ser Rodrik’s face, their own men are outnumbered within the hall, more men are outside, but by the way these men are walking in, she gets the feeling they were of no use. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” Catelyn asks, though she thinks she has a good enough idea.

Balthasar Bolton is the one who speaks then, his voice crisp. “My lady, we have come to a conclusion that the continuing chaos within the north can only be put to a hold if a Northman rules over the north in Lord Stark’s absence. Whilst your dedication to holding Winterfell is admirable it is not practical, and the north is bleeding as a result. We are replacing you.”

“And should I refuse?” Catelyn asks.

Bolton claps his hands, and Catelyn sees soldiers jostling her children up and out of their chairs, daggers on their backs. “We shall harm your children.” Is the response, and Catelyn knows what she needs to do.


	48. Dragonstone

**Prince Aemon Targaryen**

The ships had taken them as far as they could go. Home was in the distance, he could smell it, fire and brimstone, the things he had dreamed about since he was old enough to dream. Belgabad and the other dragons could sense it as well, they were growing restless, determined to take them back to their homes. The dragons had grown during the voyage, Belgabad was as big if not bigger than an aurochs now, and was big enough to mount, Rhaegal and Viserion were smaller and agile. Aemon had decided he and his sister would arrive on their dragons. He mounted up, on the saddle he had been given, dressed from head to foot in black armour, a sword on his back, his sister dressed in armour as well. He looks at her, smiles and then gives the command.

The dragons spring into action, and there is nothing quite like it, the feeling of the wind flying past, of people and ships becoming nothing more than specs in the ground below. He and Belgabad feel as one, they fly into the air, and Belgabad roars, a sound that sends a shiver through him. Rhaegal and Viserion roar in response, following their older brother’s encouragement. He smiles in his helm, the display of power they are giving now, is one that not many will forget any time soon. As it should be. They are dragons, they cannot be forgotten so easily. He directs them toward the castle, the island with its rocks and its dragons, it looks an imposing sight, and he feels a call. Home. This was where he was born, where his mother gave him and his sister life. They move toward it, and there are people coming to watch. He brings Belgabad close to the ground, has him unleash a jet of black fire, before bringing him down to land.

He waits for a moment allowing people to come to him, to mill around and whisper, there are armed soldiers coming as well. They bear the Baratheon stag on their armour and that infuriates him, but he keeps the anger from his face as he lifts his helm. In a loud and clear voice, he says. “I am Aemon Targaryen, the rightful King of Westeros, and Lord of Dragonstone. I have come back to claim what is mine.” There are whispers at this, and he can hear the fear in some of the voices, queries over what he’s going to do to those who bent the knee to the usurper or his brother.

His sister speaks, her voice soft. “I am Daenerys Targaryen, Princess of Westeros. I have come to aid my brother. Is there any who might speak with us?” it is a softness he had opposed, they were dragons they did not ask for help, but his sister had convinced him otherwise.

There is a brief murmur as the people speak amongst themselves, then, a man dressed in the colours of House Massey steps forward. “I am Ser Justin Massey, Your Graces. I can provide you with help if you wish?”

Aemon can hear the plea in the man’s voice and he hides a smirk behind a cool tone. “My men are coming into port. How many men are here?”

“Six hundred men Your Grace.” The man responds instantly.

 _A lickspittle, how fun._ Aemon thinks to himself. “Very well, send half those men out to the port, I want them to greet my men and see them to lodgings. The rest shall secure this castle for me.” He looks to where the Baratheon banners fly in the wind. “Remove those banners and find the old banners, put them on the posts. Do you understand?”

“Yes Your Grace, at once, Your Grace.” The man responds.

The man goes to hurry away, but before he can, Aemon remembering the name of a man his brother had told him about long ago asks. “Ser Justin, there was a man here named Vaegon when I was a babe, does he still live?”

The man hesitates for a moment and then nods. “Yes Your Grace he does.”

“Bring him to me.” Aemon commands, he watches and waits as Massey goes to do as bid, and when the man approaches with someone with silver hair and violet eyes, Aemon dismounts from Belgabad, and walks toward the man.

“Your Graces.” The man replies, his voice quavering with emotion. “It is an honour.”

Aemon grasps the man by the shoulders as he goes to bend. “No need for that. The honour is all mine.” Dany comes to stand at his side, and he kisses the man’s forehead and whispers. “Thank you for waiting for us Vaegon. We know you are old, but we are home now.” Much louder he says. “The dragons are home! And this time we shall not leave!”

That draws a roar from the gathered crowd, either the dragons, or their own presence has drawn such a thing, Aemon finds he does not care for the reason, all he cares for is the fact that they are roaring for them. He takes his sister’s hand and says. “Show us to the castle Vaegon.”

The man bows and hurries to show them the way home. He remembers this, even though he has never been here. He remembers the stories Viserys used to tell him, tell them about their home. He feels a pang for his brother, long dead now, buried, his ash to be laid to rest here now though. Daenerys points out the dragons carved into the walls, and he smiles and nods, wondering if now might be the right time to marry her, or whether he should wait till they are crowned and anointed in Westeros. They stop in front of a little grave, and it is here, that Vaegon says sombrely. “This is where Queen Rhaella was buried.”

Aemon nods. “Thank you, you may retire now Vaegon, thank you.” The man bows and leaves, Vaegon moves to kneel before his mother’s grave and whispers. “We are home now mama, your children are home, and we shall take back what was taken from us. With fire and blood.”


	49. Fuck Da...

**Benjen Stark**

King’s Landing was an interesting city, it adapted, changed, mutated, to suit the needs of the people who were inhabiting it. It was a fascinating process, and something he would have observed with more fascination and detail, if he were not busy in his new role. Stannis Baratheon sat on his throne uneasily, and Benjen, as master of whispers, was responsible for providing the King with information. Whether that information was completely accurate, was another thing. After all, what was he without some fun. The Stag King had his red whore as well, and the red knights, King’s Landing was starting to crumble as well, and he was watching this with much attention.

The council was shorthanded, there was Benjen, Renly, back in his role as master of laws and looking worse for wear after his time with the Lannisters, there was Alester Florent, Hand of the King, a man who was a fool nonetheless. And then there was Baelish, the master of coin, a snake Benjen planned on removing himself. The King’s voice was grim and determined when he spoke. “We are facing an enemy on two fronts, if reports from Dragonstone are true. There is a Targaryen pretender on my home, and he is threatening invasion. Benjen, what more do you know about this.”

Benjen takes a moment to consider all the information he has gotten from his spies, and then he responds. “It seems that Aemon Targaryen has brought with him an army of Dothraki screamers and unsullied. How he managed to get this disparate army across the sea, I do not know. But one thing is for certain, they are completely loyal to him.”

“It is interesting that this boy commands such loyalty from savages. Is it true that he had the whole of Astapor sacked and broken for a comment made about his sister?” Baelish asks, something twinkling in his eyes.

Benjen sees no point in sugar coating the truth, and so he nods. “Yes, that is true. Any rumours of his dragons being nothing but fiction, should have been removed by their sighting in the bay. They are a very real threat.”

The King looks contemplative then, and Benjen notes that his hours spent with the red woman are growing and worsening his appearance. “How long before they move for the capital?” is the question that comes from the man’s mouth.

Benjen thinks for a moment and then responds. “I would say a moon at most. They are scouting the area now, and preparing for any sort of siege or bombardment.”

The King mutters something inaudible to himself, and Benjen wonders if he is thinking of the red woman, eventually, the man turns to his brother and asks. “How many men can we raise to defend the capital?”

Benjen sees Renly thinking over the calculations in his head, and he finds himself wondering whether his friend and sometime lover will stay true to their plan as well. Eventually, the man says. “We have enough men in the capital, with the red knights and the Stormlords to be able to hold the capital. The people of the city will not like it, but it will do.”

Taking his cue from Renly, Benjen speaks once more. “There is one more thing, I thought I would bring to your attention Your Grace.”

“And? What is it?” Stannis asks sharply.

“The faith is growing more and more agitated with the presence of the Red Knights, and they are stirring up discontent amongst the people of the city. They accuse them of harbouring ideas above their station. The burning of the Godswood did not do many things for your image.” Benjen states.

Stannis snorts. “The Red Knights follow my order. They will not do anything without my command. I have already told them the Great Sept is out of bounds.”

“That has not been enough Sire.” Benjen reports, fighting hard against the impatience he feels. “The Red Knights are men, just as you and I are, they might be devoted to you, but they also have urges.”

“What does that mean?” Stannis asks, his voice rising.

Benjen takes a sip of water, takes a breath, then responds. “What it means Sire, is that they are raping and looting from the Faith and the ordinary citizen and doing it in your name. They hide their crimes from the eye of the law, through placing the blame on other citizens. That is creating resentment.”

The King looks completely stunned by this, his voice is soft and strained when he replies. “I shall speak with them and their commanders about this.”

“You would do well to speak with the Faith as well, to reassure them of their safety.” Benjen suggests.

Stannis nods, and then Baelish speaks. “There has been another emissary from the Iron Bank Sire, they are requesting that the first payment of the loan be made before the year is out.”

Benjen hides a smirk behind his hand, he sees Renly doing the same. There is very little money left in the treasury, the Lannisters took most of it with them, what little there was. The King has had to rely on the goodwill of the lords of the crownlords, through force. He can hear the strain in the King’s voice when he asks. “And do we have the funds for that?”

Benjen is not surprised when he hears Baelish nod in assent. “Yes Your Grace, we do, just about.” More than likely the man swindled some poor woman out of her earnings, Benjen keeps silent on that though, and adds Baelish’s name to the list.

Stannis then looks at him and asks. “How goes your search for the eunuch? Have you find anymore leads as to where the man might have gone?”

Benjen shakes his head, and says truthfully. “I do not know where the spider has gone my King. I have looked and searched everywhere, but nothing I have found has turned up anything of use. The man has for all intents and purposes disappeared.” Stannis grunts in acknowledgement, and the meeting comes to an end, Benjen knows there are some things he needs to do, but perhaps he shall leave them for later.


	50. Moth

****

**Tyrion Lannister**

They had fled King’s Landing, once it had become clear that Stannis was going to win, they had fled King’s Landing, all of them, fleeing in a mass exodus. The chaos of battle providing them the perfect cover with which to leave. They had run and run, or rather ridden as hard as they could, counting on the fact that many of the crownlords did not actually like Stannis to see them through. They had arrived at Harrenhal, and things had slowly gotten from bad to worse. Joffrey did not like the fact that he had had to flee, the boy was convinced he could ride into King’s Landing and win, with what army Tyrion did not know, the Kingsguard was still intact, but it’s morale was damaged. They were most definitely on their last legs, but no one but he could see it, or rather admit to it, and that was worrying.

His father looked as if he had aged a hundred fold in the intervening time since last he’d seen the man. His voice was still commanding, but it held a weariness that had not been there before. “We are approaching a diminishing return on our investment here. Soon enough we shall need to make a choice, do we move and destroy the enemy in the west, or face Stannis in the south.”

It is an old query, one that has been brought up before, and one Tyrion knows the answer to, before his sister even speaks. When she does, he is not surprised. “We cannot let Stannis remain in King’s Landing, father. The longer we sit here, the more time he has to accumulate followers, lickspittles who will serve him to simply advance themselves.”

Tyrion speaks then. “And yet, we are running low on supplies, and morale, sweet sister. We are facing an army in the north that has the chance to regain lost territory and does not look as if it will give up any time soon. Furthermore, the knights of the Vale are supposed to be riding down south at any moment, we will be caught between a hammer and an anvil. The capital is important, but I do not think it is as important as ensuring our main base of support is free from northern barbarians.”

“We would not be in this position at all, had you simply had the nerve to order the wildfire set off sooner, brother.” His sister replies, her tongue poisonously sweet.

Tyrion bites his tongue, holding back a barbed, response, instead, he ignores his sister, and turns his full attention toward his father. “Stannis sits in King’s Landing, but he does not have the love of the people, his red knights are seen as the scourge of the earth by them, and furthermore he is slipping in support amongst his own council. Perhaps a negotiation now could help bring an end to the fighting with the Riverlords and the northmen.”

“You cannot be…” his sister begins.

“Be quiet Cersei.” Their lord father snaps, holding up a hand for quiet. He looks at Tyrion and prompts. “Go on.”

Tyrion flashes a sardonic smile at his sister, before continuing. “Benjen Stark sits on Stannis’s council as master of whispers, but Stark does not like Stannis, nor does he want to remain part of the man’s council for long. Should we propose a way for him to get out of there, he will be able to convince his nephews to sue for peace. They do not want to keep fighting in the West, not with their own home under attack.”

He can tell his father is tempted by the idea, his voice is soft as he responds. “And you think this Stark man is different to his brother?”

Tyrion nods. “Oh I am certain of it. The man simply wants what’s best for his family and if we can convince him that what’s best for his family is for him to bend the knee to Joffrey and to get his nephews to do the same, then I am sure he will.”

“And you think he will forget the fact that Joffrey was a fool and had his brother executed?” father asks, and Tyrion has to hide a grimace behind his cup.

He doesn’t know where Lord Stark has gotten to, but he most certainly is not dead. And yet they cannot tell their father that now, not after all this. Reluctantly, he says. “I believe that might be one thing that would need to be sorted.”

Cersei looks at him with her eyes narrow. “Sorted how?”

Tyrion braces himself for the explosion he knows that will come once he has suggested what needs to be done. “Joffrey has done a great many things to anger a great many people, but none more so than the Starks. A formal apology would go a long way to easing tensions.”

As expected, his sister bursts out then. “Absolutely not. Joffrey is the King; King’s do not apologise.”

“If you want to make the northmen kneel again, he will need to do that.” Tyrion states, holding firm. “They are one of the biggest of the seven kingdoms, their loss to another side would be a fatal blow to our cause. We cannot afford that.”

“You make him apologise, he loses face with everyone. Every time he does something that someone gets offended at they will expect an apology. That is not what it is to be King.” His sister replies.

“And if he does nothing, if we do nothing, then the north will keep fighting us at every turn. We do not have Renly Baratheon on our side anymore, the Tyrells will remain out of the fighting for as long as he tells them to. We need the north to back down, and we need them to do it now.” Tyrion insists.

“Father, surely you do not agree with this madness?” Cersei asks desperately.

A silence follows this question, but eventually, their father speaks. “The boy will do what is necessary to get his throne back.”


	51. Torture

**Jon Snow**

There was pain and there was darkness. Jon Snow, did not know what the difference was anymore. He barely remembered the fighting that had led to him being here, wherever here was. He did not know what had happened, all he knew was that Ghost was wounded, was crying out for help, and there was pain, so much pain. They wanted something from him, what they wanted he did not know, he did not care, he merely wanted to sleep, to sleep and never wake up again. Forget the war, forget the pain, he just wanted to sleep, and rest. But something was stopping him, an image of Arya was there, his little sister, he could not fail her, not like father had. But there was so much pain.

The door opens, and he flinches slightly as the light enters, a figure stands before him, dressed in black, smoke billowing off of them. “Jon Snow.” The figure says, its voice soft and husky. “Do you know why I have come?”

Jon shakes his head and feels a splinter of pain. “No.” he says, a lie, he knows full well why they have come, but this game has become his only way to retain sanity.

The figure tuts disapprovingly. “I was not aware you were taught how to lie, Jon. That is most disappointing. But not unexpected. I suppose we begin again.” Something is pulled out, and Jon flinches involuntarily, he does not mean to, but memory is a hard thing to forget. The figure takes a breath, then speaks. “Tell me where your brother plans on heading. Is he moving toward the Rock, or somewhere else?”

“I do not know.” Jon lies, he knows damned well where Robb is going, and how, but he will not say.

The figure sighs. “Do we have to play this game again Jon? We both know that you know the answer to this question, so why do you persist in lying?” a moment’s silence and then the figure asks again. “Where is your brother going?”

“I do not know.” Jon responds.

The figure sighs. “Very well.” Something is drawn out and placed against his fingers, cold steel, he grits his teeth as the thing tightens its hold on him. The thing squeezes his fingers until he wants to scream, then the pressure is relieved, and the figure asks. “Where is your brother going? How many men does he have? How is he going to get there?”

“I do not know.” Jon lies again. The figure does not even sigh this time, instead, they press the cold steel against his fingers and tighten and tighten. He grits his teeth to stop himself from screaming, but the pain is too much, just as he whimpers, the pressure stops.

The figure changes tack this time, asking about something closer to home. “Tell me Jon, do you know what has happened at Winterfell?”

“No.” Jon replies, though he knows this as well.

“Your home has been taken over by traitors. They professed loyalty and then crossed over onto the wrong side. Do you know why?” the figure asks, the press of steel tentatively on his fingers.

“I do not know why.” Jon responds, though he does, treason and lies, all the Ryswells and Dustins are good for.

“Because your brother forgot the most important thing about war. And that is keeping your allies happy. Your soldiers pleased and full. He forgot that, and now the north bleeds, and Benjen Stark sides with Stannis. Do you think that is right?” the figure asks, steel tightening on his fingers.

“No….” Jon gasps, the pain growing worse. “I do not.”

The pain lessens as the steel is removed. “Good. You are learning. Tell me Jon, do you want to be gone from here?”

The steel moves to another place, his face he thinks. “Yes.” He gasps.

“Then tell me what I want to know, and you can go.” The figure replies tauntingly.

“I do not know anything.” Jon responds, the steel cuts into his cheek, and blood pours down, his head is pounding with pain. “How can I tell you something that I do not know?”

The steel cuts deeper into his cheek. “Come now Jon, you are your brother’s most trusted advisor. You have said so yourself. So tell me, why are you lying to me?”

Steel digs in deeper, and he can feel bone underneath the blade, panic begins to set in. “I do not know anything. What happened to my direwolf?”

The figure laughs. “You are trying to drive a hard bargain are you then, Snow? Ah I see you are learning. Alas, I cannot tell you that until you tell me what your brother’s plans are?”

Jon feels like screaming, his vision fades and blurs, suddenly he is a wolf and there are rods poking him, drawing blood, he screams then. “I do not know!” he howls. “Please, make it stop!”

“Tell me what I want to know and this will all stop.” The figure whispers, slithering around him.

“Do you promise?” Jon asks pitifully.

“Yesssss.” The figure whispers.

Jon takes a deep breath. He prays for forgiveness. “He will be going to the Rock…. He wants to make a statement.”

“You see, that was not so hard, now was it.” The figure replies. Before Jon can respond, the door opens and the figure speaks to someone else, the atmosphere in the room changes after that. The figure comes back to him, steel pressing against his chest and his cheek. “You lied.”

Fear cuts deeper than steel. “No! I swear I didn’t.” Jon says, hating how much like a beggar he sounds.

“I gave you a chance and you threw it back in my face.” The figure responds, sounding more disappointed than angry. “I am sorry Jon, but this is the end.”

“No please, I will do anything, anything!” he begs.

The figure walks away and from a distance, Jon hears the figure say. “Gregor is your master now.” Jon screams then, as the blows come, as his trousers fall, and he loses control.


	52. White Rose

**Lord Eddard Stark**

A great many things had happened over the past few months, let alone the past few years. His leg was slowly healing, but the rate at which it healed was not good enough for him. He yearned to return home, to see his wife and children again. He had sent them letters, but nothing had come back. He had heard word of fighting in the West, and nothing else. He was worried, and he knew that the King was worried as well. Ned had been sent to meet with a band of sellswords because of where they all came from, and he was nervous. He had heard tales of the Company of Rose, since he was old enough to understand what tales were. They were a band of independent soldiers who had left Westeros when the last King in the North had bent his knee, but had soon wanted to return home, they had not been allowed to, and now Ned was counting on their desire still being there, for he too was tired and wanted to return home.

He did not know exactly where they were in Essos, but this was most definitely a war camp, he had seen enough of them in his time to know them when he saw them. A muscular man with brown hair stood before him, staring at him with suspicious eyes. “You are Lord Stark?” the man asks.

“I am.” Ned responds simply.

“Who is this other man?” the big fellow asks.

“He is a friend, and ally.” Ned responds.

“Very well, come with me.” The man says, turning and walking away toward a tent, which has a black direwolf and a sun as well as a white rose on its banner. “Lord Stark, Commander.” The man says.

As Ned looks at the figure standing before him, he sees hints of himself in the man’s long face, and he sees something of his father in the tiredness of his eyes, but also Brandon’s defiance. The man nods at him and says. “I am Errold Snow. Descendant of Brandon Snow. Commander of the Company of the Rose. I would know why you have come here.”

“I have come to make you an offer.” Ned responds. “I have come to give you a chance to come home.”

“Home?” the man before him asks sounding surprised. “I am home. Ever since I was old enough to remember, a command tent has been my home. Why would I want to leave?”

Ned can feel Connington’s impatience growing, and so he says. “Because I know you have been struggling. I grew up hearing about how you wanted to come home, but never did. I want to know why.”

Errold Snow snorts. “Why? Because your father, and his father before him were too damned proud to accept we were offering an apology. My mother died giving birth to me in a tent, because we were not allowed to come home. We have offered our services time and again, but we have not been accepted. Why then should I believe your word?”

Ned feels as if he is at a loss for words, and so is grateful, albeit reluctantly, when Connington speaks. “You have the word of the King.”

“Which King?” Snow asks. “Last I heard there were four Kings competing for the throne in the south.”

“The only King that matters, the rightful King, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, King Aegon Targaryen.” Connington replies.

Snow looks unimpressed. “And what will this King give me and mine, to tempt us away from here?”

“Your land back.” Ned states. “There are houses in the north which have since taken your land and wealth, but they have turned traitor. You will get your land and title back, and a place at court, be it at Winterfell or in King’s Landing.”

“And will we be treated as fair and true citizens of the throne? Not as the half dogs your father would have us be?” Snow asks.

Ned bristles slightly at that, but nods. “Yes, your rights will be recognised.”

Errold Snow seems to be contemplating this with the right amount of promise and seriousness. He knows that this has been something the Company of the Rose has desired for a long time, and that Snow himself wrote to Ned’s father a long time ago. Eventually, Snow speaks and asks. “If I do accept this offer, what would you wish for my men and I to do?”

“Fight alongside me and the rest of the north, against our foes. Against the King’s foes.” Ned says.

“So get involved in southern affairs? The exact reason my ancestors left.” Errold responds sounding disgusted.

“Yes.” Ned responds, his anger starting to get the better of him. “It is time the north woke up and realised that it cannot be content to sit on the side anymore. We have been laughed at for too long. We must move forward, or we will always suffer.”

“Your father and brother died in the south did they not?” Snow asks cautiously.

“They did. And had they been more prepared, they would not have rushed into what they did. They could have survived.” Ned responds honestly.

“And what has led to this enlightenment?” Snow asks. “Did you too not stay out of the south, to your detriment?”

“I did.” Ned agrees. “And my family has suffered for it. The time to change has come. We must be involved; we have a responsibility to be involved.”

Snow seems to be intrigued by what he has to say, and Ned is not sure if that is more concerning or a relief. Eventually the man speaks, his words slow and considered. “If I get involved, I will do this for one thing, and one thing only. The return of our lands and titles. And, a Bolton’s head on a stick.”

Ned considers this for a second then replies. “Very well, if that is what you want, that is what you will get.” He shakes Snow’s hand and wonders if this will go as well as he hopes it will.


	53. Dragoness

**Princess Daenerys Targaryen**

The dragons loved it here, there was plenty of room for them to hunt, to feed and to mate. The people who had grown up on Dragonstone had been preparing for the return of the dragons for years, they knew what to do when Belgabad, or Rhaegal or Viserion approached, they did not mind, they were happy. Dany was happy as well, happy that they had come home, that they were closer still to regaining the throne. Aemon was happy, as well, Dragonstone agreed with them, and Dany was not quite sure she wanted to leave this place, even if it meant not gaining the throne. But, as she looks into her brother’s eyes, her hands running circles on his chest, she knows she cannot suggest that. So instead she asks. “Do you think we can trust Massey?” Justin Massey was someone who had proven very useful, but she sensed he had a changing perspective on things.

Her brother is silent for a moment, thoughtful, considering her question, eventually he replies. “I think he has given us information because he wants to be useful to us. He wants to show us that he is loyal. And so far, nothing he has said has been wrong. Baratheon is falling apart in King’s Landing, Benjen Stark has reached out to us, and the northmen are falling apart as well. He has proven useful.”

Dany looks at her brother and sees that there is something bothering him, so she asks again. “And what if he thinks someone else could be more beneficial to him? You know he covets his father’s seat as well as more power within the crownlands. We have not yet landed in the Crownlands, and the expected uprisings on the mainland have not yet happened. What if he sees that and abandons us?”

Her brother takes her hand then and kisses it. “Then I will personally find him and kill him myself.” The bravado is there, though there is an underlying sense of unease in her brother’s tone that she picks up. “Though I admit the lack of uprisings is worrying.”

Dany sits up then leaning back a little into her brother’s arms. “Do you think we might have misjudged things then? That perhaps the people of Westeros do not want us back?”

Her brother runs a hand through her hair. “I do not know Dany, truly I do not. I want to believe that once we get to the crownlands proper, we shall have more support. Already Velaryon and Celtigar have pledged allegiance as has Massey. But Bar Emmon remains silent. I do not know, perhaps we need to make a show of things.”

“Was the taking of Dragonstone not enough? We have taken our ancestral seat right from the nose of the usurper who sits the throne. Surely that needs to be enough?” Dany asks.

Her brother shakes his head. “No, I think that was expected. Dragonstone bent so easily, because this is our home. The rest of the kingdoms will not bend so easily I do not think. Unless we remove some of the enemies from the board.”

“Which ones?” Dany inquires. “Baratheon must go, as must the Lannisters, but what of the Starks? They fought against our father and brother during the usurper’s war, do they burn as well?”

Her brother takes his time to answer that question, and eventually shakes his head. “No. The Starks are too important for the north right now. We need one region to be stable and steady. And as such they must remain. Perhaps I should write to Winterfell itself and offer assistance.”

“And go the other way? Is that not unwise? The throne is before us, not in the north.” Dany points out.

Her brother snorts. “I will not be going to Winterfell now, sister, I’d be going once I had my throne. Should they still have difficulties that is. But we must do something, and soon, I cannot sit and wait for much longer.”

Dany moves her hand down to her brother’s stomach and then lower, her fingers ghosting over his manhood. “Oh, I know.” She says breathily. She hears his breath hitch, and smiles. “So tell me, have you had any more offers for marriage from nobles?”

“I have.” Her brother responds cautiously, he knows where her hand is, and what she’s doing to him right now.

“And?” Dany prompts. “Who have they come from?” she begins quickening her pace, knowing her brother is close.

Aemon seems most uncomfortable, but also comfortable, a strange look on his face. “From…from Dorne, from Prince Doran for his daughter Princess Arianne, from Highgarden and Lady Margaery, from Winterfell even and the Lady Sansa. They are asking for many things though. Lands, titles, honours. Things I do not think I should give.”

She quickens even more. “Highgarden would be appropriate. They have eighty thousand men on their beck and call, some of the best commanders in Westeros, and they owe our family. Stark might be good, but would echo of Rhaegar and Lyanna. As for Dorne, I do not like Dorne.”

“Why?” her brother gasps as his orgasm hits, his seed spilling onto her hand.

She brings her hand up and licks her fingers, looking at her brother as she does so, then when she is done there, she kisses him then pulls back and whispers. “Because Dorne always asks for more than they give, and they have cost our family enough.”

“That is true, though they do have a grudge to settle with the Lannisters. Their army could be useful in the fighting to come.” Aemon responds.

“If they were truly loyal, they would not demand a marriage.” Dany points out. “They would be marshalling their banners at once. As it is, they have a Lannister granddaughter betrothed to one of their prince’s sons. Hardly the most reassuring thing.”

Her brother nods. “Very true. Perhaps we might reason with them.”

She is about to reply, when there is a knock on the door. She pulls the sheet back onto herself and her brother, then calls for whoever it is to enter. Ser Jorah steps into the doorway and bows. “Your Graces, I come bearing bad news. Viserion has disappeared.”

 


	54. Rebellion

**Benjen Stark**

The King was beginning to fray around the edges, one could see it in his eyes and his appearance. The red woman was having an adverse effect on him, yet the man did not seem to care. It was as if, preparing for the fight against the Targaryens was all he cared for, and all he was living for right now. The rest of Westeros was burning and there was nothing this King cared for that. It was sad, but more worrying was the rumours Benjen had heard, the talk that was coming, the civil strife brewing in the streets that no one had been able to repair. He looks at Renly and asks. “You are certain of this?” The words are strange, and he cannot be sure, nothing is certain anymore.

“Yes, ever since the Onion Knight’s body washed up on the shore, he’s been talking of doing this thing nonstop. The red woman has done her bit to convince him as well. I think he is lost.” Renly replies urgently.

Benjen runs a hand through his hair. “What madness could be prompting this? Has he finally broken down then? Lost what little sense we thought he had?”

Renly shrugs. “I do not know, and frankly I am not sure I care anymore. I have never liked my brother, and this just confirms everything I have ever thought about him. We cannot allow him to go through with this.”

Benjen nods. “I know, but how? That is the question that I find most pressing, how are we to go about doing this? Baelish whispers in his ear about gold, and retribution, and the red woman whispers about him being some sort of saviour. How are we to get away with this before he breaks us? You saw what he did to Lord Florent and to Lord Estermont.” The sight of their burning bodies was etched into his mind.

“I know what he did, Ben, that is why I am being so insistent on this. We cannot allow him to make this madness continue. We have to stop him.” Renly says insistently.

“Are the lords of the Stormlands still yours?” Benjen asks, his mind moving quickly.

“Of course.” Renly replies confidently.

“Good. We shall need to make use of them. Stannis’s little fire display is far too similar to that of Aerys Targaryen’s, the lords the Stormlands will not like that. We can use that to make them see that removing him is the only course we have now.” Benjen says.

“They will want to know who we replace him with. Shireen is a girl and cannot inherit the throne.” Renly points out.

“How close are the Tyrells to mobilising?” Benjen asks thinking quickly.

“They are about two days away from striking.” Renly replies.

“Good, once they have gotten my nephew out, we shall have our candidate for the throne.” Benjen says.

“What of Stannis himself? And his wife and their followers, they will not go quietly.” Renly says.

Benjen thinks quickly then. “Stannis will need to die, a conflict between the faith and the red knights should ensure that. As for his wife and their other followers, they can die during the struggle. The red woman is the issue. Most likely she knows something of what we are planning. She must be killed before she can tell Stannis.”

Renly nods. “I quite agree. I think Thoros would be the right man to do that deed. He does not like her and her sanctimonious ways.”

“Tell him to do it then, and to do it quickly.” Benjen replies.

“What of your other nephew? He is in the west still is he not, how will we get word to him?” Renly asks.

Benjen sighs, there had been no word from Robb for some time, last Benjen had heard he’d struck off near the Crag or some other god forsaken place, and met some Volanteene woman and married her. The Freys had complained, but they were dying off in huge numbers as it were, and had not the means to do anything about it. He sighs. “I think word can reach him, we shall have his support, as well as that of the Riverlords. And once we have them and the Tyrells, the Lannisters will be finished.”

Renly nods, seemingly pleased with that. “Now if only Baelish would tell us what was happening in the Vale.”

Benjen nods. “I think there is more to this than meets the eye. I do definitely think that we need to investigate Baelish more thoroughly. But the question is how, he knows how to play the game, better than most others of his standing.”

“I think that is what can be used to bring him down.” Renly states. “His overconfidence will make him do something and then he will get stuck into hot water. And eventually, he will freeze over, we need something to make him freeze though.”

Benjen runs a hand through his hair, momentarily thinking over how much shit he would get if his brother knew exactly what it was he was doing, and then deciding he doesn’t care, Ned’s foolishness got them into this mess. Now he will get them out of it. “I think the time has come for our allies in the north to move off of their stated goals and change paths. And if things go accordingly some of them will be removed in the process.”

“And make him think his beloved Catelyn is in danger, he will most definitely crack.” Renly says enthusiastically.

Benjen nods, and then says. “We must act quickly, there is little time to spare. We must go now.”

Renly nods, but before he leaves, he asks. “What of the offer Tyrion made you?”

Benjen grabs the piece of paper from the table, he looks at it once, reading the words his friend had written, and scoffs at them once more. He shows the letter to Renly and says. “This letter is a joke, and I refuse to be made a fool.” He tears the paper up and throws it into the flames of the fire.


	55. Mother

**Lady Catelyn Stark**

The coup that had taken place in Winterfell had left a very bitter taste in her mouth. Ryswell and Dustin were the ones leading the council alongside their allies, men and women that she would not forget when the time came. There had been no word from the south for weeks now, and she was beginning to grow worried. All she could really do was look after the accounts and the household and ensure her children were safe and cared for. In a way, the coup had done them some good, as she was now abler to spend time with her children than she had been before, and she was able to notice things that she might have otherwise missed.

She looks at her children now and asks them. “So what are you learning in your lessons?”

There is a moment of silence, then Arya speaks. “I’m learning about Nymeria and her invasion of Dorne, and how she made the place better, through removing some barbaric customs.”

The one thing Catelyn has noticed since the girls came back from King’s Landing, is how freer Arya has become, her instructor Syrio continues to teach her, and though Catelyn might not approve, if it means that her daughter is happy, who is she to deny her that right? That Septa Mordane no longer teaches her how to sew, that the Septa is no longer alive, perhaps also has a big part to do with that, and Catelyn regrets not noticing this sooner. She smiles at her daughter. “That is good, and what have you learned from these lessons?”

Her daughter thinks for a moment and then says. “That it is okay to break from the mould, and do something different and out there. I think Nymeria was a great woman and a great Princess.”

Catelyn nods, and turns to her eldest daughter, Sansa had been quite reserved since coming back from King’s Landing, a multitude of things had been happening to her, changing her, and Catelyn was not quite sure, how to approach them. “And what about you Sansa, what have you been learning?”

Her daughter was to be a Queen in the making, and now she is merely a lady of Winterfell once more, Catelyn can tell her daughter feels lost, but she does not open up anymore, and so she does not know how to get through. “I…I… I am learning about my namesake. The Lady Sansa Stark, who was married to Jonnel One Eye.”

Catelyn leans in interested, she knows a little about the Starks of old, but not as much as she did once many years ago, and so she finds herself asking. “And what have you learned about the Lady Sansa?”

At this Sansa seems to go in on herself, her words are barely above a mumble. “I’ve learned that at first she did not want to marry her uncle, but eventually she came around to the idea, and though they had no children they were very happy.” There is a wistful look on her daughter’s face that makes Catelyn’s heart break a little.

“Why would she marry her own uncle?” Arya asks, disgusted.

Catelyn goes to speak, but it is Sansa who replies. “Because they had two rivalling claims, as Sansa was the daughter of Jonnel’s older brother Rickon, who died fighting alongside the Young Dragon in Dorne. They united to prevent there being war within the north.”

“So he used her for her claim?” Arya asks sounding even more disgusted.

“It seems so at first yes, but they eventually came to love one another.” Sansa replies, the wistful look on her face intensifying.

Before Catelyn can even respond, there is a knock on the door, and Ser Rodrik enters, looking red faced and angry. “The Bolton boy wants to speak with you my lady.” Catelyn nods, kisses her children and then follows the knight, neither of them talking as they walk the shot distance to the solar where Balthasar Bolton has set up.

Bolton, second son of Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, and Bethany Bolton, is tall, pale of face, handsome on the eye, has short dark hair, and a rough stubble on his cheeks, his eyes are a milky green. “Ah, Lady Catelyn, thank you for coming.” The man says, standing up and kissing her hand, before gesturing for her to take a seat. “I am sure you are wondering why I have asked to meet with you, and I apologise for interrupting your time with your children. But what I have to speak with you about could not wait.”

“And what was this piece of urgent news?” Catelyn asks, her curiosity piqued.

Bolton is silent for a brief moment, something he has no doubt learned from his father. When he speaks, his words are softly spoken. “As I am sure you are aware, the alliance that staged the coup, is fragmenting. Ryswell and Dustin might be father and daughter, but they want different things. I have been required to play peace maker far too often. I do believe, that things are slowly getting worse, instead of better. The other houses supporting this alliance are minor, and the forces they promised in aid against the Ironborn have stalled.”

“And what does this have to do with me?” Catelyn asks.

“Why, you are former ruling Lady of Winterfell, mother to our own Lord Stark. I am not a fool, my lady, and neither are you, we both know the Dreadfort is falling into disrepute, and I have done my best to ensure you and your family are kept safe and well protected, from greedy eyes.” Bolton states.

“You want me to support you in a bid for the Dreadfort? Why would I do that?” Catelyn asks, though she already knows her answer.

Bolton smiles. “Because just as a Stark must always be in Winterfell, a Bolton must always be in the Dreadfort. My father organised this coup, and I admit it was backward thinking of him. The north needs more links with the south, the time has come for this to happen. Support me, and the Dreadfort will support you.”

Catelyn thinks on this for a moment, and as she replies, she cannot help but think that she is making a pact with the stranger himself. “Very well then.”


	56. Ice

**Lord Eddard Stark**

Two sellsword companies were to fight alongside the King when he ventured back to Westeros. Ned was not sure how to feel about that. He did not agree with sellsword companies, seeing them as dishonest and broken things, a sign of a broken thing. That he’d had to agree to allow the Company of the Rose back to Westeros as well, was one thing that he was finding hard to swallow. Everything felt as if it was moving far too quickly, the King had a dragon, and Ned was still trying to wrap his head around that. It was all too strange, too magical, things long thought dead were coming back to life. In the midst of all of this, he had to serve as an advisor to the King as well. The command tent, was bustling with life, they were all there.

The King speaks first, as is his right. “How close are we to being ready to leave?”

Jon Connington, the Hand of the King is the one who speaks. “We just need to ensure there are some more solid structures to hold the weapons, the elephants and the supplies on the ships before we move out Sire.”

“And how long will that take?” Ned finds himself asking. “We were supposed to be ready some three weeks ago. This delay is growing non sensible.”

“There have been delays. It is to be expected. Give it another three days Sire, then we shall be ready to leave.” Connington replies, looking at the King, and ignoring him.

The King nods, though Ned can see that there is some uncertainty in his expression. “Very well, I trust that your judgement on this matter is sound, Lord Connington.” The King pauses, looking at the map spread out before them. “My aunt and uncle sit in Dragonstone, no doubt plotting and planning. Ser Harry, has there been word from them?”

The Captain of the Golden Company shakes his head. “There has not been Your Grace. It is possible the letters got lost in the bad weather.”

The King looks disappointed, but Ned speaks, voicing his own concerns. “I think it might be better to remove Prince Aemon before anything else is Done Sire. The man is a threat, and has experience. He has no reason to give up his claim, or let you claim the throne. He must be dealt with.”

The King looks at him shocked. “Prince Aemon is my uncle, and you would have me remove him? Why?”

Ned sighs, seeing not for the first time, just how young the King really is, and he feels sad for what he is about to say. “The Prince harbours a claim, he is a prideful and stubborn young man. He will not bend to anyone, he supposedly killed his own older brother. The time has come for him to be removed. You must do what needs to be done Sire.”

There is a long moment of silence as the King digests his words, and then the silence is broken by Connington. “I agree with Lord Stark. Prince Aemon must die.”

The King looks as if he wants to disagree, but then he sighs and nods. “Very well then. I suppose I would not have been given Rhaegal had I not needed to use him in a fight.”

Ned can tell this is going to weigh heavily on the King, how could it not? The boys are nephew and uncle, still they need to refocus, and so Ned finds himself enquiring. “Where are we going to land? Dorne?” He hopes not, he has not liked Dorne, not since the Tower.

He finds himself surprised, when the King shakes his head. “Not Dorne, Dorne will rise in time, Rhaenys has done her duty well. No we shall head to the heart of the Baratheon strength, we shall head to the Stormlands. If we can take their castles and their lands, the Baratheons will soon find themselves lacking supporters, for who will support someone who cannot hold their own home?”

Ned thinks of Cat and Winterfell and feels a pang. “Very wise Your Grace. And will Storm’s End be a target?”

“Yes.” The King says with a ferocity; Ned had not thought him capable of. “The Baratheons took my home from me, and I will take theirs.”

“How many men will you take with you to the Stormlands?” Ned asks.

“All of them.” The King responds, and as Ned goes to protest, the King speaks. “I know you wish to return to Winterfell and the north, Lord Stark, but I will need you with me. It will be far easier for all of us to land in the Stormlands, than for you to break away and try and brave a hostile narrow sea to make it to the north.”

Ned wants to protest, but he knows that the King is right, therefore he sighs and nods. “Very well Sire, I agree. Where will we go first?”

Ned sees the King and Connington exchange glances before the King responds. “You and the company of the Rose shall accompany us to Griffin’s Roost. From there we shall march onwards.”

Ned can tell that this has Connington’s hands all over it, and he feels resentful over that fact, still he nods and accepts his King’s decision. The King then dismisses everyone else, apart from Ned, and as he sits there, the King speaks. “I am sorry you could not return to the north, my lord, and I know you are worried for your family, but I assure you, I have people in Westeros working hard to ensure their safety.”

Ned wants to ask how the man intends to do that, but instead he merely nods. “Thank you Your Grace.”

The King nods. “I know this is difficult for you my lord, but rest assured, this will end well. And our enemies shall be destroyed.”

Ned wants to believe the King, he truly does, but he has seen far too much of life to be persuaded, still he nods in agreement. “I know Your Grace.”


	57. Coup

**Benjen Stark**

King’s Landing was on fire, the coup to remove Stannis Baratheon from the throne that was not his had begun. Benjen was dressed in armour, covered in it from head to toe, he had not worn armour since the Greyjoy rebellion, and was beginning to remember why that was. It was a heavy thing, it slowed his movements, made him move slowly, ungainly, but he kept going. This was no time to be stopping. There was work to be done, they’d managed to catch Stannis and his men off guard, by the sudden movement of this coup, but Benjen knew that that would not last for long. And so, he hurried through the halls of the Red Keep, swinging his sword when necessary, cutting down men wearing the flaming Stag of the usurper. He moved through it all, determined to make sure that things were solid, and then he continued onward.

There was something about the fight, that had always excited him. It made his blood run hot, instead of the cold it often was. He felt alive in a way he had never felt whilst not fighting, it both frightened him and thrilled him. Benjen cuts down a man wearing the red cloak of the Red Knights, spitting at the man as he passes. They’d cut down nearly half of the red knights in the beginning, their flames not providing them the evidence of this little coup. The red woman was being dealt with right now, and Benjen knew that by the time they were done, she would be dead, and Stannis would be resting in the ground. The man infuriated him, he was a fool of the highest order, stubborn, and too stupid to admit when he was beaten. There was more to be done yet, and Benjen keeps moving, past the stitch in his side, god has it been that long?

He continues onward, through the ever-winding path of the Red Keep, and finds himself wondering not for the first time, just what it was that went through Aegon the Conqueror’s head when he ordered it built, what sort of madness had plagued him when he had the thing constructed. No one knew what went through the King’s head when he was alive, and there are fewer still who know it now. Back when the Targaryens had dragons, they were Gods, they were still Gods when the dragons died, but slowly and surely after the Blackfyre rebellions, that aura slowly disappeared, until Aerys and Rhaegar snuffed it out. The thought of those two men still brings anger and grief to Benjen’s mind. He had never ever approved of them or Lyanna’s fascination with them, but Lyanna had been the one to wake him up to the realities of the south, and all it had to offer. Another red knight comes toward him and he cuts the knight down, with a savagery only Brandon had once possessed. Brandon, now there was a man who would’ve known how to get their nephew on the throne. Ned, Ned knew nothing, he plotted and planned, but knew nothing, and he dithered, by gods, the dithering was the worst. Still he was their brother, and so they moved onward.

The fighting is most intense inside the corridors leading to the throne room, Benjen feels a little shoot of adrenaline when he sees that, the Kingsguard of the foreign King are fighting the red knights, and the red knights are fighting his and Tyrell and Stormlander men. It is a brilliant sight, they move forward, Benjen swinging his sword as if it is nothing more than a swat, with which to remove flies. They fight and fight, more men fall to the sword, men scream, and men chant, but it is all the same, they are all dying for a man who will not come out and fight alongside them. If there is one thing that has led to this, it is Stannis Baratheon’s willingness to allow other people die so that he might live. This cowardly approach to leading is what has led to this, all of this. The Lannisters live, Robb is somewhere, Jon is a prisoner, and all know that the King has retreated within himself.

They move quickly, rapidly through the remaining passageways, until the door of the throne room is thrown open. Inside, Benjen is greeted by a strange sight. Stannis Baratheon’s body is lying at the foot of the throne, is crown askew, and his body broken and bruised and bloody, at his side lie his red woman, her head smashed in, his wife, her throat slit, and his daughter. “Ah Benjen, so glad you made it.” A voice says, drawing his eyes to the throne. Sat there, on his nephew’s throne, is Renly, dressed in golden armour, with a green cloak, the Stag crown atop his head, the man looks like a King, a smile on his face.

“What happened?” Benjen asks, gesturing toward the bodies, shock making it hard for him to speak.

Renly shrugs. “I told them they were finished, they refused to comply, I had them killed.” The way in which he says that, with such nonchalance, sends a shiver through Benjen’s tired body.

“And the girl?” he asks pointing at Shireen.

Here Renly seems sad. “She was not supposed to die, but her mother took her with her on her way to the seven hells.” There is an intonation of resigned acceptance there, and it makes Benjen worried.

Finally, he asks the question, the one that has been burning in his mind since he has been dying to ask, but also hesitant to ask since he got into the throne room. “Why does a crown adorn your head Renly?”

Renly chuckles, and Benjen knows something bad is about to happen. “Because, this crown is my right, Benjen, it is my birthright, and I intend to claim it.”

Others are moving toward him now, he tenses, but he knows he is too tired to make a move, to do anything, other than stand there. “What about our plans? What about our nephew?”

Renly stands before him, cold steel pressing into his back. “The boy is a bastard, and bastards cannot rule the seven kingdoms.” Renly replies, steel slipping into his body, tiredness, creaking in.


	58. Descent

**Lord Robb Stark**

The war continued, Robb wanted it to end, wanted to scream into the night for it to end. The war had cost him a lot. His brother was a prisoner, his home was under the control of a man he had thought his friend, and most painfully, his wife and unborn child had died, murdered by men he had thought allies. Robb had killed those men, and then found his friends being killed in turn by men who were sworn to him. He had killed them, and then found himself battling unrest within his own army. It was over now, and his men were marching behind him once more, but he was tired, by the old gods and the new was he tired. He wanted nothing more than to go home and to rest, but there were many things needed done before he could do that. He needed to deal with the Lannister army, and Joffrey, he needed revenge, the thing he had come south for.

The horses marched in order, the foot soldiers marched as well. Everything was quiet and solemn, they were experiencing dark times, things were progressing, but Robb knew they could not suffer a defeat here, he might have won every single battle he had fought, but facing rebellion from within his own army was a bitter pill to accept, it made him feel as if he was breaking inside, as if he had failed. The image of Eddard Stark often flashed into his mind on such moments, and he would find himself wondering what his father would think, what he would make of the marriage Robb had made. Then the anger would come, anger of his father dying as he did, of not fighting, of not coming when he had sent the girls, of considering some strange man’s children more important than his own. Anger filled him most days, that and a desire to abandon the drink he had touched when his wife and child had died.

Smalljon was at his side, had remained faithful throughout, the Boltons were dead, killed in the fighting, as were many others. They marched slowly and surely through the mass of weeds and growing snow that there was on the ground. Winter was fast approaching, but Robb could not remember a time when he had smiled or laughed, every breath was laboured, his will to live was measured not in the passing of days, but rather in the number of men he killed, or sent to their deaths. Robb ached for the embrace of his wife, for the moments they would spend in the sun contemplating what the future held for them. That was gone, it had been taken from him, as had many other things. The north was a distant dream for him now, he simply wanted to sleep, but sleep he knew would not come, there would be much more to come for him before he was allowed a moment of rest.

In a way, he supposed it was his punishment, he had led so many northmen to their deaths in pursuit of a goal he did not even remember anymore, it was only right that he too suffers the consequences. As the sounds of horns came, the sounds of men exchanging blows, Robb nods, a grim smile on his face. Perhaps now he might get some sort of relief. They move, the pace being set, quickly they move onwards, dancing through the tracks of a thousand other little things. His sword comes out of his scabbard, they move, and they crash, dancing through poles of light and darkness. His brain moves, he moves, but he does not feel. Men fall, men die, men break, and men scream, but he feels nothing, he does nothing, he is nothing. Hopelessness grips him, he continues fighting, his body moving automatically, nothing more to it. Robb takes one blow and then another blow, and another. The pain is almost constant, thrumming through him, but he soldiers on, doing what he can to keep going.

Lannister men are preventing their attempt to make it back home, that is something that angers him, who are the Lannisters to tell him what he can and cannot do, they do not even hold King’s Landing, Stannis Baratheon does, they have no more authority here. He drives his point home through the swing of a sword, the ending of another person’s life. More bodies fall to the ground, there is chaos all around, there is more than death here, there is the ending of precious lives, his conscious decides that that is the moment to make its way through to him, he screams and shakes, trying to break free. Nothing comes of it, he shivers and shakes, but his armour holds firm, he swings and fights, men die around him, there is far too much pain, there is not enough to make things easy for him, he keeps going, struggling with everything. Bodies continue to grow around him, the snow is red, deeply disturbed, he shoulders through, Greywind somewhere, he does not know anymore, does not care, he wants to sleep, to sleep and neve wake up, but he keeps going. Fighting, that is all he is now, a fighter, they keep battling through, the armies get smaller and smaller, and they keep fighting.

His horse trips over something, what it is he does not know, but he finds himself moving on instinct, throwing his sword away somewhere into the dirt and snow, loosening off the grips of the saddle, and flying into the air. His horse lands with a thud, and a wheeze, dead soon after. He staggers up, looks for a weapon, punches someone who comes near him, and staggers through, looking for something he is not sure he will find. The fighting keeps going, he feels as though he is nothing, he sweats and swears, his mind races, and there before him is a sight he thought he’d never see, Jaime Lannister broken and dishevelled, being hacked into a million tiny pieces. Robb stands and watches, feeling as though the world is falling apart.

 


	59. Ending Times

**Lady Catelyn Stark**

The coup had lasted as long as it possibly could, that much Catelyn was sure about. Dustin and Ryswell might be family, but Lady Barbrey was far too stubborn to allow her father to dictate terms.  Balthasar Bolton had come good as he had said he would, leading the way with his men to overthrow Ryswell and Dustin and delivering them into chains. Catelyn had then sent Ser Rodrick with men to remove the ironborn from Torrhen’s Square which had been achieved successfully, once this trial was over and done with, they would deal with the ironborn still lodged in Deepwood Motte. Now though, Catelyn found herself sat on the winter throne, preparing to hand out judgement to the traitors.

They were all gathered out in the great hall, Bran and Rickon and the girls, preparing for judgement to be passed. The prisoners were before them in chains. Catelyn takes a breath then speaks. “You are here to answer for the crime of treason, of breaking your oaths of fealty and trying to rule what was not yours to rule. Lady Barbrey, this is not the first time you have been brought here as a warning. You were cautioned once by my Lord Husband long before the war began, and yet now here you are.” She pauses and then looks at Lord Ryswell. “And you Lord Ryswell, you are nothing more than a leech, a leech who deserves to be buried.” A pause. “Do you have anything to say for yourselves?”

There is a general silence as they digest the words that she has said, then Lady Dustin speaks. “You claim we have committed treason, but who have we committed treason against? We swear two oaths, one to the throne, another to Winterfell. Your son broke his oath to the throne, and has not sworn an oath to another King. And yes, Winterfell is our liege lord, but how are we to respect a liege lord, who does not seem to care for his people? He fights in the south, making use of our men, our fathers, husbands, brothers and sons, shedding their lives, for no apparent reason. You expect us to just accept this without question? We are not mindless slaves to accept a bad hand when we are dealt it. We did what we thought was necessary, if that means we must now face death, then so be it.”

The woman speaks well Catelyn will give her that, perhaps it was all the time she spent preparing for something she would never get, regardless, now she has admitted to the treason, and by admission of silence, so have her father and brothers. Catelyn takes a moment to look around the great hall, the lords of the north who were here when things went southwards, are here, Manderly, Locke, Flint, Wull and many others, all are here, to witness justice done. Eventually, she speaks. “Very well. Lady Barbrey, Lord Rodrick, you and your family are convicted of treason against your liege lord, the punishment for this crime is that of execution. Ser Maron shall do the deed.” The big and bulky man who had come with her from Riverrun all those years ago, steps forward, he swings an axe as the members of Dustin and Ryswell are forced to the ground, their necks bared. One by one their heads are removed, and Catelyn has to do her best not to be sick at the sight, she sees Sansa holding Rickon tightly to her chest, and she is grateful for that. Bran rests in Hodor’s arms, staring unseeingly. Once the last of the Ryswells has been executed, the heads are removed to be placed on the walls of the castle. The people begin to stir, and Catelyn speaks once more. “Subject to his aid against the traitors, Winterfell recognises Balthasar Bolton as Lord of the Dreadfort.” There is some murmuring at that, and Bolton walks forward, before bending before her. “Do you promise to uphold the ancient oaths to the best of your ability?”

Bolton looks at her through his lashes and nods. “I do my lady. I swear it before the old gods and the new. I will make sure the enemies of House Stark are dealt a heavy blow.”

Lady Catelyn nods. “Good, I want you to move forward with your men to meet Ser Rodrick at Torrhen’s Square, it is time for the ironborn to be dealt a heavy blow and driven from the Motte and the surrounding areas.”

Bolton rises to his feet and smiles. “Nothing would please me more my lady.”

Catelyn nods, then she dismisses the man, with a command she dismisses the rest of the gathering from the hall. Once the last man has left, she steps down from the winter throne and nods for Hodor to carry Bran to the solar, once they are there she shuts the door, and looks at her children. “You are well?” she asks, looking at Sansa, and then at Arya who has a distant look in her eye.

“It was surprising.” Sansa says, speaking to break the silence. “That you’d allow us to see the executions.”

 Catelyn sighs, she had debated this long and hard, and had eventually reached the conclusion that there was nothing to it, they would have to see it eventually. “I thought the time was right. These are difficult times, it was necessary.”

“Will Robb really be coming home?” Arya asks then, her voice hopeful.

“Yes. And Jon will be coming back with him.” Catelyn replies.

“What will happen to Theon then?” Bran asks, his voice sounding small.

Catelyn grimaces then, thinking of the broken husk of a man who rests in a cell within Winterfell, his hair greying, his chin broken, as are his teeth and fingers. She sighs. “I do not know.”

“I hope he dies.” Arya says with some fire. “He was a traitor; he deserves to die just for that.”

Catelyn takes hold of Rickon then, allowing him to nestle in her arms, she looks at her daughter and nods. “I agree.”


	60. Problems

**Tyrion Lannister**

Things were caving in around them at Harrenhal. They had had a strong position, once they had come here, but disease, dysentery and simple hunger and impatience were slowly destroying their position. They were losing men, their lords were slowly either dying or they were becoming impatient, even father, the great Tywin Lannister could not do enough to stem the tide. Tyrion felt as if they were beginning to see the end, and he himself, was thinking of saving his own skin and getting out as soon as he could, the problem was, it seemed as though this was expected of him, and so he was watched night and day. It was offending but also slightly relieving, at least he’d not been forgotten.

They met in the solar father had taken for his own. The boy was there, looking dishevelled and broken, as was Cersei, father looked imperious as always. “Morning all.” Tyrion says, forcing himself to speak with brightness and cheer he did not feel. “I trust you all slept well?”

“Sit down Tyrion, we are not here to talk about our night time activities.” Father says gazing pointedly at Cersei. Tyrion acquiesces and sits down quietly, without comment. Father eventually speaks. “We are struggling to hold our position here. Perhaps we should have made a move sooner, but I did not think that Jaime would lose so badly a second time to the Stark boy, perhaps that was my mistake.” A heavy silence follows that admission, news of Jaime’s death had come as a surprise, word of how he had died even more so. “Word has come ahead from our scouts that the Stark boy is leading his host of northmen alongside an army of Riverlanders toward us, he intends to force us to do battle.” That surprises Tyrion, and he can tell his father is surprised as well. “Furthermore, it appears that Renly Baratheon and his army of Tyrell and Stormlander troops is marching our way also. They intend to lay siege to us here.”

“And what are we going to do about that?” the King asks, his voice sharp and high pitched. “Surely you do not expect me to believe that you, the might Tywin Lannister are just going to sit there and allow these traitors and buffoons to come knocking on our door?”

“Our army has been severely depleted Your Grace,” Tyrion points out. “If we make a move to try and fight any one of these armies we could well face being hit from the rear. At the same time, we cannot afford to remain within Harrenhal, for fear of being starved out.”

The King glares at him. “I will not flee from a fight imp. I am not my uncle that I would choose to flee when there is a chance to fight and win.” The barb about Jaime hits too close to him for Tyrion.

“Your uncle was a fighter Your Grace, he was the best swordsman this realm has ever seen, and he was more of a man than you will ever be.” Tyrion snarls, watching as anger flashes across the King’s face.

“That did not stop him from trying to run like whipped cur when his army was decimated by Robb Stark of all people.” The King responds. The King then looks at father and snarls. “I had thought you said the murder of his wife and his unborn child would break him. It does not seem to have done anything of the sort. You are getting senile in your old age, old man.”

“Joffrey!” Cersei gasps, speaking for the first time. Tyrion watches his sister look at father and say apologetically. “He does not mean that father.”

“Oh but I do.” Joffrey replies his voice taking on a malicious tone. “You have a very fierce reputation, Lord Tywin, but so far I have seen nothing to suggest that that reputation has been earned. There has been a lot of postulating and plotting, but at every turn when it has come to fighting, you have been defeated. By Robb Stark or by Edmure Tully. You might inspire fear, but the thing that you need to inspire fear is not there in you. You are nothing without your song, and I think this time the song is finished.”

Throughout the King’s rant, father had remained silent, his face unreadable, and now, well now it seems that it remains that way as well. “So what will you do then Your Grace? Since you seem to be so convinced that you are better suited to this task then me, what will you do?”

The King seems momentarily stumped by the question, and briefly, foolishly, Tyrion hopes he will apologise, they need the old man to lead them, Joffrey is a boy, and a fool, and he, well Tyrion knows what he is. But the King does not do that, displaying an arrogance only known to him, he says. “I will take a portion of our forces and march out to face Robb Stark, and I will take his head.”

At this Tyrion finds he cannot keep silent. “You do that and you will leave the rest of us undefended and potentially vulnerable to outside attack. You do that and your mother and brother will be left alone. Do you want that?”

The King stares at him, his eyes wide. “I do not care. I am the King. Stark was offered a pardon he refused, I will destroy him.” With that the King gets up and leaves, a tired looking Ser Barristan walking behind him.

As soon as the boy is gone, Cersei turns on him and snarls. “You just had to do that, didn’t you? You just had to antagonise him. Now he’s going to ride out determined to prove you wrong, and he will die because of that.”

“I merely stated what we all know to be true. That the boy is too thick to see that is not my problem.” Tyrion replies honestly. His sister fumes but she says nothing, and Tyrion knows she knows he is speaking truly, for once that does not bring him pleasure.


	61. Belgabad

**Prince Aemon Targaryen**

Dragons roared in the sky, and it sent his blood to singing. They were calling him, calling home. Aemon felt more alive than he had done throughout his entire life in that one moment. Dressed in black armour and with a dragon helm atop his head, he knew he looked like a King, he was a King, and the power was within him. They moved toward King’s Landing, the ships were moving slowly, and it was not enough, nodding to Daenerys, they move their dragons toward the city, the Red Keep. Home, the sound of it was all encompassing, all powerful, everything was going right now, soon enough they would be sitting where they needed to sit.

The red keep comes closer into view, and his heart begins to soar, home, home is so near, he can nearly touch it. They bring their dragons down into the courtyard, the thrump of the dragons landing causes the ground to shake, Aemon smiles. They move off their saddles and onto the ground, men start filing out to greet them, Aemon looks at them and says simply. “Bend or die, we are here to claim our rightful throne.” There is a moment of silence, and then someone says they cannot bend. “Very well, then you shall die.” The words are said and fire is unleashed, men die screaming as they are reduced to ash. He steps over the ash when the fire stops and smirks. “You should have just bent.” He and his sister walk through the doors and into the keep.

As they walked through the keep, Aemon was acutely aware of the fact that there were men walking toward them, yet none of them were trying to stop them. He wondered at that briefly, but decided it did not matter. They kept walking, side by side, as they were meant to be, pointing out various things of the Red Keep, the walls which slanted toward them, pointing to them as if indicating their right to be walking there. There were no skulls on the walls, not like Viserys had said there would be, and he knew that was the work of the usurper and his kin. It made him feel angry for a moment, but then that disappeared, when the doors to the throne room appeared. He knew they were the doors to the throne room due to the presence of the Kingsguard at the door. “Stand aside.” He commands.

“We cannot do that.” One of the knight’s replies.

“We swore a vow.” The other knight states.

“You swore a vow to a false King, bend the knee to your rightful King or die.” Aemon growls.

The first knight that spoke snorts. “You are no King. You are a pretender.”

Aemon clenches his hand into a fist, and before he knows what he has done he has smashed it into the knight’s face, which considering he has no helmet on leaves him with a bloody face. Aemon smashes the other man’s face in as well, before pulling back and drawing his sword. “Move or die.” He snarls. Both men draw their swords and move toward him. Aemon laughs, stepping in front of Daenerys, and then moves as quickly as he can. These men are slow, either that or they are shit. He moves and the knights fall to the floor. He looks at them, then spits, then sheathes his sword. “You are unfit to wear the white cloak.” He moves past them and pushes open the doors to the throne room.

He walks into the throne room, Daenerys at his side. There sat on the throne is one of the usurper’s kin. He stares at him and states. “You are sat on my throne usurper.”

The man laughs, a grating sound. “I do not know you boy! But this is my throne, by right of might and conquest.”

Aemon snorts. “You owe your entire family’s life to that of mine, and you would dare question me? Do you even know who I am?”

“I just said I do not boy. Now either bend the knee or explain why you have killed my men.” The man responds.

Aemon looks at the man, staring at him, anger flying through him. “I will give you one last chance, get off my throne, and I might yet let you live Baratheon. If you do not I will kill you myself.”

A knight standing at the foot of the throne moves towards him then. “You will have to get through me first.” The knight snarls.

Aemon looks at the knight. “So you are Loras Tyrell. I have heard much about you. Tell me, do you want to die?”

The knight laughs. “You are no match for me Targaryen.”

Aemon takes out his sword, still bloody from the confrontation outside, he can feel Belgabad moving in, flitting in and out, as he is wont to do. “Explain that to your brothers Ser.” Aemon replies.

The knight draws his own sword and moves towards him. “Be careful Loras.” The usurper’s brother says cautiously.

Aemon makes the first move, swinging his sword to the right, Tyrell blocks him, and then pushes back and swings at him, Aemon allows it to cut him, then pushes forward, swinging and hacking away. Cutting at the defence of the Tyrell boy, seeing where his weaknesses are, pushing, throwing his weight at the blows he swings. Tyrell gives as good as he gets, and soon they are both panting and heaving, sweat was dropping down his face into his armour. Their armour was dented, he moved and danced, swinging and slanting through, their blades singing, he notices a gap and pursues it. Tyrell falters, then falls, the usurper screams and Aemon moves past the knight and onto the throne. He looks at the usurper’s brother and in a quick slash, cuts the man down, allowing him to fall down the steps. Aemon sheathes his sword, holds his hand out for his sister, and as she walks up the steps, taking his hand he smiles and whispers. “We are home now my love, we are home.” He sits on the throne and feels like singing.


	62. Sounding Drums

**Lord Robb Stark**

The sounds of war echoed throughout the camp, men were preparing to fight once more. Joffrey Baratheon, the mad boy King had been sighted very close to where their army was, and as such, Robb knew one last chance at revenge, at justice had come to present itself. They had an army, it was not as big as he would have liked it to be, they had suffered far too many deaths for it to last though. Still, they were prepared and ready, the false King’s army was not, and that would be the thing that would stand them in good stead, against him. Robb finished putting his armour on, and advanced through the camp, Greywind at his side, the dreams from last night still flickering in his mind, of a dead wolf, with white skin and red eyes, that was not good, but he forced it from his mind and moved forward.

Soon enough, his horse is saddled and ready, his sword is on his person, he is mounted atop his horse, in the saddle, clear and steady, he takes a breath, gives his men a rousing speech, or at least tries to, Robb is not sure he knows how to be positive anymore, he has seen far too much death and chaos for that to matter. They move from the camp, out into the field, advancing slowly but surely, his heart beating a steady rhythm, he knows now that to rush into battle, is to willingly invite death into his heart, and though he might wish it for himself, he does not want any more men’s deaths on his conscience. Slowly but surely he thinks through the plans, from a brief scan through his visor, he can tell their plan might well work, might already be working. Joffrey Baratheon has never fought before, he does not have Tywin Lannister marching alongside him, he is exposed, Robb nods and the signal is given, battle begins.

His heart begins to speed up as they move between the lines, seeking, searching, looking for the boy who took his father from him. Greywind is at his side, snarling, cutting and biting, doing all he can to help keep Robb going, they both know just how chaotic the last two years have been, how problematic everything has been. The pain of losing his wife and child, the pain of seeing Theon betray him, all of this pain, all of it has been slowly eating into him. Today is the result of all of that, of all of the anger and pain, and hurt that he has been feeling. He swings his sword and watches men fall and die, he feels nothing, he keeps going, swinging his sword, dodging men who try to bring him down, he does it all and makes sure none of them can ever truly hurt him. If he could avoid feeling pain and hurt ever again he would, but he knows that this is just a temporary fix, and so he takes all he can from it.

Something smashes into him, he gasps, but then he moves forward, cutting the thing down. He smacks the thing away, and another thing, and another. He does not know if the things are grass or people, chaos, freneticism is all there, engulfing him, swallowing him up into one thing or another. It feels as though they are living inside some sort of reality that cannot be real. He swings again, blood comes away, more bodies, another body, his men are falling as well, the King has more men than him, he sees white and sees white fall, he sees more white, they are coming from everywhere, he feels tired, so very tired. Still he keeps moving, determined not to let this down, not to let this opportunity go. He keeps fighting, swinging his weapon, and moving like a man possessed. Lannister, Baratheon, he does not know who these people are anymore, all he knows is that they are in his way, and he makes the way clear. His men are at his side, fighting, breathing, snoring, sweating, puking their way through.

A blow to the chest, he feels Greywind knocked to the side, he growls, they both growl, he shuffles slightly, swings and connects, another blow to the chest, his weapon is faltering, he is faltering, he cannot have that. He straightens, swings again, smashes into something, breaks and then moves through. A knight of the Kingsguard lies broken and bleeding before him. He sighs, good men are dying for a horrible King, where is the sense in that? He sees Baratheon’s banner and smiles, now is the time for him to get his revenge, the thing long promised to him. He moves as quickly as possible, cutting down those who get in his way, the Bold falls before him and moves dying slowly and painfully, then there is the boy. The boy who looks at him in panic, Robb grins. “Time to try your steel.” They begin their dance. Robb remembers the boasts that Joffrey had made that day long ago in Winterfell, the claims he had made, the jests all of it comes back to him now, and he snarls. The boy whimpers, and fights, but there is no fight in him, no fight at all. It is disappointing to say the least, but he moves forward.

“Mercy please!” the boy begs.

Robb snorts. “Mercy? Where was your mercy when you had, my father executed? Where was the mercy when you laughed at my brother’s fall? You deserve no mercy boy.”

The boy whimpers. “I am your King. You are at my command!”

Robb laughs. “You stopped being my King the moment you hit my sister.”

The boy looks terrified, and Robb moves towards him, he knocks the sword from the boy’s hand and then swings in an arc, cutting and swaying, bringing the boy down to his knees. As blood falls from the boy’s mouth he snarls. “You will die here, alone and broken. Your line will end with you.” He brings his sword down, cutting the boy in half. As the boy falls down to the ground, Robb screams.


	63. Pain

****

**Tyrion Lannister**

They had come at night, the banners of the falcon of the Arryns and the moon of the Vale had come streaming down the hills in the dead of night. Horns had sounded, and the men at arms had begun the frenetic process of trying to prepare for a battle they knew they were going to lose. Tyrion had put his armour on, and done what he could to make sure everything went accordingly, but nothing in life ever went accordingly, Joffrey was dead, his army broken, and now the northmen were advancing toward them as well. Like a predator they smelt blood and they had come to take full advantage of that. Tyrion did not know whether or not they could survive the fighting to come, but he was not going to go down without a fight.

Tommen and Cersei were hiding somewhere, where he did not know, but they were hiding and so long as Tommen was alive, they could keep fighting, some spark of resistance could keep going. If they were captured, then this was all over, for Tyrion did not think that whoever sat the Iron Throne now would want the boy alive and well. A grim thought, but a true one, Jaime was dead, and Tyrion mourned his brother’s death, Joffrey was dead, and though Tyrion did not mourn the loss of such a mad man, the boy had been their King and his death was a serious blow. Now pain was on the approach, Tyrion could hear drums, and men, beating in time to a rhythm only death knew the tune to. Harrenhal loomed behind them, they had advanced forward so as not to be penned in, something that Lord Tywin had been deeply concerned about, but Tyrion did feel as though it was a mistake. A mistake that was too late to change now, the armies were mashing together, beating out some sort of horrifying beat.

Somewhere his father is out there, fighting, commanding, doing all the things a commander is supposed to do, everything a Lord Paramount is supposed to do, and Tyrion knows that even if they come out of this alive and victorious, they will not see eye to eye. Tyrion has resigned himself to never getting what is his, Casterly Rock will likely be taken from their family at the end of this, or given to a weaker cadet line, as a means of ensuring complete loyalty from the gold mines of Westeros. It is a bitter thought, but one that makes sense, something that he would do, and something he would criticise anyone else if they did not do. And so he fights, swinging an axe, his horse long dead by now, fighting and culling at ankles, armour bears no pressure now, and they keep going. His head hurts, the wine he drank the night before a bad idea now, but still he keeps going, fighting, always fighting. He was not made for this, he was made for reading and drinking, nothing else. But now he fights, and his arms hurt, his brain hurts, everything hurts.

A big bear of a man comes toward him, and Tyrion braces himself for pain. He feels it shoot through his arms and his legs as he blocks and dances against the swinging of the man’s sword or axe or mace, whatever weapon the man is using it causes a lot of hurt to Tyrion. He can feel the ill-fitting armour on his body caving in, denting in places where it should not dent. A knock comes to his head, and he goes flying, he does not know how, the armour should be weighing him down, stopping him from moving so freely, and yet that blow has defied such logic and sent him flying through the air, as he flies, he throws up everything he drank the night before, his helm flying off as he does so, so that the vomit comes and lands everywhere on him and everyone else. There is pain in his arms, and his legs, his head spins, he lands with a thump, and stars come to his eyes.

Tyrion sways, feels more vomit coming, and leans over, some poor soul who wanted nothing more to tend to his land and fuck the local milk maid is lying next to him, gets covered in his vomit. Tyrion mumbles an apology, takes a moment to take stock of the situation he is facing. The Lannister men are burning through themselves, the Vale men seem as if they are fighting on energy and pure adrenaline alone. The Lannister men look tired, and broken, they have no strength, nothing, they have nothing left to give. Tyrion struggles to his feet, sways a little more, vomits some, and then moves out. His axe disappeared when he went flying through the air, and so he ducks and dodges the blows that come his way, he cries out for some form of release, and finds that he does not know where his father is. Someone comes to try and kill him, luckily, Tyrion is small and he still has enough of his wits about him to knock the man to the floor with a kick at his feet.

His head feels as though it aches with the pounding of elephant feet, he wants to sit down and sleep, but he keeps going. He takes a man’s water flask and drinks, jugs the drink more aptly, and spits out more than he keeps down. Then from there he moves slowly through the crowd, breaking into a sweat, as he moves, keeping a look out for where he could go, where he could leave, he does not know what he is thinking anymore all he knows is that he wants sleep, he wants rest. The pain in his head does not stop, nothing stops anymore, it just keeps going. The blade comes from nowhere, there is blinding pain, and then nothing. He feels relief and laughs; he falls to his knees and dies there and then.


	64. Council

**King Aemon I Targaryen**

The crown sat well on his head, it rested firmly there, whereas with Viserys it had moved and shifted. Aemon had been crowned King in the throne room, the High Septon doing the deed, and there had been great fanfare afterwards, feasting and drinking. Then had come his marriage to Dany, the thing he had waited for his entire life. They had married in the Great Sept, with more feasting and drinking, the smallfolk were seemingly happy with this due to the food and drink and money that was distributed out to them. His wife was with child, she’d told him that as they had made love the night of their wedding and the thought of being a father thrilled him, and made him even more determined to ensure all threats to his throne were removed. That was why he had called this council meeting.

“Lord Baelish, you have overseen the crown’s finances since the reign of the usurper, tell me, how strong are they looking?” Aemon asks, he does not like Baelish, finding the man far too slimy and conniving for his liking, but for the time being he will do.

Baelish takes a cursory look down at his books, then says. “So far the crown’s finances are stabilising Your Grace. The debts collected from the lords of the Riverlands and the crownlands have done much to replenish the treasury, though the Iron Bank continues to ask for an audience regarding repayment of their loans.”

Aemon nods. “Tell me Lord Baelish, you have shown a clear aptitude for finance, how is it then that the crown was allowed to get into so much debt, and take on loans that it could not afford to pay? Were you so willing to bend to the will of a drunken slob that you did not think to use your own brain?”

Baelish shifts slightly under the intensity of his gaze, and is only able to mumble a reply. “The King commanded and I did as bid Sire. It was not for me to question the sanity of what he was asking.”

There is something about the way in which the man replies that sets Aemon on edge, he will need to consider the man in more detail soon enough. For the time being he merely nods. “Very well, tell me my lord, do we have the funds to actually repay the Iron Bank? I know that they do not accept no for an answer.”

Baelish shifts again very slightly, his voice soft. “I believe we do Sire. There are more than enough lords who sided with the Lannisters and then Renly Baratheon who can have their lands and titles declared forfeit to the crown. The income that comes from that would be more than enough to repay the Iron Bank.”

At this Varys speaks. “Sire, one of those houses was the Tyrells, they are far too powerful to be removed from the chain.”

Aemon does not like Varys, he remembers hearing about the eunuch from his brother, about how he would whisper words of something or the other to different people. He takes a firm approach here. “I know my lord Varys. I was not planning on removing them. But if they want their daughter to survive, they will pay a tithe for this.”

“I can have a consider seeing who else might be able to afford such a thing Sire.” Baelish suggests, eagerly, almost too eager.

“Then do so.” Aemon replies, turning his attention to Varys he asks. “Tell me Lord Varys, what word is there of the Lannisters and the others they fight?”

Here the eunuch shifts slightly, then says. “Tywin Lannister and his army fought a combined force of Northmen, Valemen and Rivermen outside of Harrenhal. They were outmanned and were safely defeated. Tywin Lannister was slain during the fighting attempting a retreat, furthermore Lannister’s son the imp was slain in the fighting as well.”

Aemon feels a slight flicker of disappointment, he had wanted to have the pleasure of killing those two, with Jaime Lannister dead, still they are dead, and there are two Lannisters still alive. “What of Cersei Lannister and her boy?”

“The forces of the north, the vale and the Riverlands are bringing them to you Sire. They are offering them as a sign of their allegiance.” The eunuch responds.

“Good.” Aemon replies, Cersei Lannister, a woman who was meant to marry Rhaegar once, he remembers Viserys telling him that when they were young. He wonders what she will be like, and whether she will kneel before her rightful King to spare the life of her son. “What of her daughter?”

“Myrcella Baratheon is being brought to King’s Landing as we speak, the Dornish are bringing her for you to pass judgement on Sire.” Varys replies simply.

Aemon nods, then turning his attention to next most pressing issue says. “This boy calling himself Aegon Targaryen, how true is it that he is who he says he is? Lord Varys, he claims you know of his existence?”

A look crosses the eunuch’s face that is one of either fear or reluctance, either way, the man replies honestly-at least that is what Aemon thinks- “I admit I did once try to smuggle the baby Aegon Targaryen out of King’s Landing, alongside his sister, but then the mad King found out and had me thrown into a cell thus. There is not a chance that I could have helped this boy escape.”

Baelish snorts. “How very convenient for you Varys, then, so why would the boy mention you?”

“Because the boy either has a fool advising him, or is trying to sow discord amongst us.” The eunuch replies.

“He claims to have Jon Connington advising him, Connington was a close friend of my brother’s. Why would Connington support him if he were not truly who he said he was?” Aemon asks.

“Connington is a desperate man, desperate men will do anything to achieve their aims Your Grace.” The eunuch responds simply.

 


	65. Stark

**Lord Eddard Stark**

They had landed at Cape Wrath and moved from there. The Golden Company proving once again why they were one of the best, if not the best sellsword company in the known world. Men from the Stormlands had joined them in their campaign, determined to remove Baratheon control. Griffin’s Roost had fallen Connington claiming his family seat, then had come the big one, Storm’s End, held by a garrison some three hundred strong, had fallen through trickery and guile. Ned did not know how to feel, he had been to Storm’s End just once before, when he had come to relieve the Siege during the rebellion. Now here he was, aiding the Targaryen boy against the Baratheons, and the boy’s own uncle as well. Things were chaotic. He had finally sent letters to his family, getting an emotional response from Cat, and nothing from Robb. Still, the war council prevented him from over thinking the silence from his firstborn.

Ned listens as Connington speaks to the King, that he has been allowed to attend this meeting at all shows just how desperate the King is to ensure northern support. “Storm’s End, Griffin’s Roost, Rainwood, Cape Wrath, Tarth, Estermont and the lords of the marches have all sworn their swords to you Your Grace, they promise arms and more for the venture to come. We all await your command.”

“How many men do they bring?” the King asks, his voice belying his age.

“In total around ten thousand men. Half the strength of the Stormlands sits in King’s Landing, at the side of your uncle, proclaiming him King.” Connington replies, his mouth curving in distaste.

“And you have sent the letter to King’s Landing, informing my uncle that his rightful King is here and is waiting for his submission?” the King asks, an air of authority in his voice.

“I have Sire.” Connington replies. “A response has come. Your uncle it seems has forgotten how the succession works.”

“He continues to claim the throne?” the King asks aghast. “But why?”

Here Connington shrugs wordlessly, and Ned speaks. “I believe it might well be because he feels he has earned that right Sire.”

“What right? He is behind me in the succession, he should know this by now, unless his years in exile have dulled his senses.” The King snaps.

“He took the throne through force, the same way your ancestor did Sire. Furthermore, he holds it now through the support of his dragons and his army. When Robert Baratheon took the throne through conquest, the line of succession became distorted, it is no longer a valid way to claim the throne. I believe that Aemon Targaryen knows this and as such is doing all he can to reduce the chance of someone stealing the throne from him.” Ned points out.

“The throne is not his to have it stolen from him. It is mine and always has been.” The King replies.

“If the rebels had not installed the usurper on the throne, perhaps this issue would not be there at all?” Connington questions sarcastically, glaring at Ned.

Fighting back the urge to snap back at Connington, Ned merely sighs. “But it is an issue now.”

“So what do you suggest I do then, Lord Stark?” the King asks. “I have no desire to fight my uncle for the throne, I would rather make him see reason than force him into a position where more bodies will be lost to the throes of death.”

Ned thinks for a moment, but no other possible solution presents itself, therefore, reluctantly he voices the only option he can see. “Whilst that is a noble sentiment Your Grace, I fear that it is too little too late. Prince Aemon, is his father’s son, he will not move from the throne, not when he believes it is his right. You will have to force him from the throne by force.”

The King seems saddened by his words but he nods all the same, asking. “How many men does my Uncle have?”

Connington is the one who answers that question. “He has some thirty thousand Dothraki screamers, the forces of the crownlands and the forces of the Stormlords in King’s Landing. In total, he has more men than you do Sire, but he does not have the advantage.”

The King looks surprised by this. “How so?”

“He does not possess a Baratheon child. The Stormlords in King’s Landing might have bent the knee to him now, but they will think twice about fighting against you should you legitimise the bastard boy here.” Connington replies.

“They would really support a bastard?” The King asks surprised.

“Yes.” Ned says. “No matter how much you might wish it were otherwise Sire, Robert Baratheon inspired a lot of loyalty amongst the Stormlords. Legitimise his son, and they will fight for him and for you. Give him Storm’s End, show them that you do not mean to hold the actions of his father against him, and you will earn his loyalty as well as that of the Stormlords.”

The King considers this for a long time, before eventually consenting. “Very well, Haldon draw up the legitimisation documents, and we shall have this done before we march out for the capital.” The King pauses for a moment, and then continues. “Lord Connington, what word has there been from Dorne?”

“Prince Oberyn comes to Storm’s End with seven thousand Dornish spears, as well as the Princesses Arianne and Myrcella. No doubt he intends to negotiate a marriage between you and his niece.” Connington replies, his voice distasteful.

“A marriage to Princess Arianne would be most useful Sire.” Ned says cautiously. “It would help to heal the wounds that Prince Rhaegar started during the rebellion.”

“The Princess is the King’s cousin Stark, by right of their blood relationship, such a marriage should be unnecessary.” Connington replies.

“This is not the pre-rebellion world, Connington, things are different now. The King must take alliances wherever he finds them.” Ned responds bluntly.

Before Connington can respond, the King speaks. “Lord Stark is right; I shall treat with them and see which deal is sweeter and makes more sense.”


	66. Stark Meet Dragon

**Lord Robb Stark**

The war was still raging, a new year, a new century had dawned and yet the war was still raging. Lannister was broken, Baratheon was all but dead, the ironborn were no longer a threat, and yet the war still raged on. Robb did not know how to feel, his brother was still missing, his men were ragged and tired, he was desperate to go home, and now, well now his father was supposedly alive and well, and in Storm’s End with a pretender. Robb felt betrayed by that, betrayed to his very core. His father had not bothered to write for two years, then suddenly decided to write and he thought by doing that that things would go back to normal? Robb despised that, despised his father’s weakness, despised him from abandoning him, their family, everything that had gone wrong was because of his father, and he was sick to his stomach at the thought. This meeting with the King, Robb hoped would provide him with something to think about. The King was tall, he wore a black doublet, with the three-headed dragon of his house emblazoned on it, a crown of gold and steel atop his head, he looked a King, more than Joffrey ever had.

They were sat opposite one another, in the King’s own solar, the King speaks then his voice deep and resounding. “Welcome to King’s Landing Lord Stark. I hope you find it to your welcome.” A brief pause, then the King continues. “My deepest apologies for the deaths of your wife and unborn child, the Lannister evil knows no limits it would seem.”

Uncertainly Robb says. “Thank you for that Your Grace.” He knows the Lannisters co-ordinated with the Freys and others to ensure that his wife and child died, the pain and satisfaction of dealing with that still haunts him.

The King nods, seemingly analysing him, looking at him in a way that makes Robb feel most uncomfortable. “Tell me Lord Stark, what do you make of Tommen and Cersei Baratheon? Some of my advisors tell me that they must die, so that the threat to my reign is removed, whilst others tell me that the boy can live, and rule as a Lannister, that a grandson of Tywin Lannister would do better than a brother of the man.”

Robb hesitates here, he knows the Westerlands is broken, Kevan Lannister is a broken man himself, and whilst it would give him a lot of pleasure to see the Lannisters and their home in chaos, it would not be good for the realm. Carefully he replies. “I think that Kevan Lannister would do a much better job, and the belief that he owes his life and that of his family to you, would do much to keep him line Sire.”

The King seems impressed by this response, something that greatly surprises Robb. “An honest answer, good. I happen to agree with you, Kevan Lannister would owe me more than a mere boy, though a boy can be used and shaped, however there are those who would believe him to be a son of Robert Baratheon still and would seek to use that against me. I cannot allow that.”

Uneasily, Robb asks. “What would you do with him?”

“I would put him into the citadel. There he can be looked over by those loyal to me, whilst also doing something he enjoys. I have been told he likes to read.” The King responds.

“A good idea Your Grace. And what of Cersei Lannister?” Robb asks.

The King gives him a measured look, then states. “She will die.”

Robb wants to ask why, but gets the feeling that asking the King such a thing would not be a smart idea; therefore, he merely nods. However, there is something that is bothering him, and so he asks. “There is something I have been meaning to ask you Sire.”

“And what is that?” the King asks curious.

“The Dothraki have been camped inside and outside the city for many moons now, and there are reports that they are causing issue with some of the people. My own men have nearly come into conflict with them on numerous occasions. What I want to know is what will you do about them?” Robb asks.

The King takes a sip of water, puts the cup down, then looks at him. “The Dothraki will be used to deal with any who disobey my rule, and they shall also be used as practice.”

“Practice?” Robb asks uncertain over whether he actually wants to know what the King means.

The King nods. “Practice. There is another war coming, and the Dothraki will be needed for it, however, they are a drain on resources, resources that the people of my kingdom will need. They shall be used as practice for those who need it, for the fighting to come.”

Robb is unsure of how to respond to that, and so he merely nods. “I see Sire, a very good idea.” Personally, he finds the Dothraki as undesirable and as savages, the fewer of them there are the better.

A moment of silence passes between them, as they both drink from their cups, Robb feels himself settling down, feeling less on edge than he did before, but there is still a feeling inside of him that makes him sit straight, unable, or perhaps unwilling to fully relax in front of the King. It seems he is proven right to behave as such when the King asks. “So your lord father sits with the pretender in Storm’s End. Tell me my lord, how do you feel about that?”

A mixture of emotions run through Robb then, confusion, anger, revulsion, everything he has ever felt since learning of his father’s continued survival. Eventually he says. “My father is a traitor to you Your Grace. I do not know why he has supported this pretender but I, House Stark and the north do not.”

“Can you guarantee that?” the King asks.

“Yes.” Robb responds simply, unsure of whether it is completely true and not willing to find out.

“Very well, you may leave now, and make sure to keep your men in order.” The King says.

Robb stands, bows. “Yes Your Grace.” Then he walks out of the room, releasing a breath he did not know he was holding.

 

 


	67. Meetings

**Lord Jorah Mormont**

It felt good to be back in Westeros, he had been given his land and titles back by the King, he had met with his family and apologised, and things were going well with Lynesse, it felt good, life was good. The King had named him Hand as well, a responsibility he did his best to fulfil, whether he was actually any good at it, he did not know, but he was trying his best, surely that would count for something? All in all things were going well, but there were dangers lurking in the shadows, Baelish, Varys, the threat of his past transgressions being discovered, the need for a reliable Kingsguard, and many other things. It was tiring work, but Lynesse seemed to love being in King’s Landing so that made things all the better. Jorah knew he would need to return to Bear Island at some point and to see his father as well, but for now he had a meeting to handle.

They were in the council chamber, though only three members of the council were there, himself, the King and Varys the eunuch. The King was the one who spoke first. “Stark, Tully and Arryn all seem to have become accommodated here, and they seem to be enjoying their stay here. That is good. Cersei Lannister’s death would have done much good, as for Kevan Lannister he has accepted his promotion with grace. All things considered King’s Landing seems fine. Though I sense that is different to some things you know, Lord Jorah?”

Jorah thinks for a moment, then looks down at the reports he had received. “I know that the old alliances of Tully, Stark and Arryn are working efficiently Your Grace, but there is something about the way in which Lady Lysa and Petyr Baelish are interacting that is causing me some concern.”

“You mean the way they flirt with one another, and how they are never seen in any other company but their own?” the King asks, at Jorah’s expression of surprise the King laughs. “I have eyes Jorah, I know how they have acted around one another, and I know the rumours. But why does it concern you?”

“I feel as though there is more to them than we might think. Baelish seems oddly powerful for where he comes from. He has amassed a lot of power, and from the way he acts around her it seems that she is the source of his power, where it originated from. And I think the boy is theirs.” Jorah says.

The King looks at him intrigued. “You believe Robert Arryn is not actually Jon Arryn’s son? Why?”

Before Jorah can respond, the eunuch speaks, his voice silvery. “Lord Jorah is not wrong; the boy is not Jon Arryn’s. Baelish is the boy’s father.”

The King looks surprised. “And Jon Arryn never suspected?”

At this the eunuch laughs. “Oh he knew alright, but he did not care. He needed someone to succeed him who would have his name, and who was not Harrold Hardying and to keep the Tullys happy. And so, you have the boy.”

Jorah can see the King thinking of something that might well have disastrous consequences, and so he quickly says. “Sire, I think it would be best to leave that particular thing be, and allow the other charges to be levelled against Baelish when the time comes.”

The King sighs. “I’d rather just kill the man now and be done with it, having to listen to his infuriating smugness is starting to annoy me. Tell me, have you found someone to replace him yet?”

“Kevan Lannister could replace him, or perhaps Wyman Manderly from the north?” Jorah suggests.

“Both would be sensible suggestions and would allow for both regions to be placed under watch Your Grace.” The eunuch suggests.

Aemon thinks for a moment and then nods. “Lannister will do fine; he can settle the Westerlands from here and ensure that he does nothing treasonous as well. Jorah, you shall inform him of his appointment.”

Jorah nods. “Yes Sire.” He takes a breath and then asks. “What of the Dothraki Sire? They are growing more problematic as the days go on. When shall they be dispatched?”

The King does not answer for a moment, then he sighs. “They shall depart in three days. I wanted to make sure everything was ready. Lord Tyrell has agreed to set up something for them, and to ensure they are depleted in number when they come face to face with the pretender’s army.”

Jorah nods, he still feels slightly unsure about this, killing off a valuable ally is not wise, but then they are also a burden, just how secure they would be with them still there is something Jorah does not want to contemplate. “Very well Your Grace. And what of the rumours of Stark and Tyrell looking to wed one another?”

At this the King smirks. “Let them wed, the woman will be far from court, away from any potential plots to see her wed to someone else. Stark is a good man, he will remain true, unlike his father. Speaking of which, where is the man?”

“Sat with the pretender in Storm’s End, meeting with the Dornish, discussing their options for an assault. It seems the pretender has come to realise he needs to move to force.” The eunuch says.

“Will you send men to deal with them before they get too far ahead Sire?” Jorah asks.

The King shakes his head. “No. I will see what they do and act accordingly. They have one of my dragons, I will see if I can make the beast see sense before attacking it. If the pretender attacks me first though, then I shall respond accordingly.”

“And what of Stark?” Jorah asks, curious to see how the King responds.

The King is bullish when he replies. “If he sees his mistake I will pardon him, if he does not, I will beat him and then feed him to Belgabad.”

 


	68. Broken

**Lord Eddard Stark**

Dornishmen and Dornishwomen had come in the army that Prince Oberyn had brought with him from Dorne, his bastard daughters Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene had come as well. They had exchanged curt acknowledgements to one another, the wounds of the rebellion had not healed the anger the Dornishman clearly felt toward him.  Toward Lyanna. They had not spoken since the betrothal agreement between the King and Princess Arianne, a celebration had been held and Princess Myrcella had been kept in the castle, to be sent to the Faith when the time was right. There had been no response from Robb, despite the letters he continued to send him, and Ned felt as if a part of him was being cut out every time there was no response. Other northern lords had agreed to swear their swords to the King, and had slowly moved from the capital, but there were nowhere near enough, that they had not been hounded was a surprise.

The northmen who had agreed to come and fight for him were now in Storm’s End, around one thousand of them, and they were asking questions, questions he had decided he needed to answer. “You have come to fight for your rightful King my lords. I know that it might seem strange, for me to ask this of you, having been thought dead for nearly two years, but I remind you of the oath you swore. King Aegon is the only one who can do anything about improving the kingdoms, he has the will and the drive to do so. Prince Aemon wants the throne only because he sees it as his right, nothing more.”

“And yet Prince Aemon sits the throne now, and has actively gone about doing things. Your King sits here cowering behind the walls of Storm’s End as if he is some sort of coward.” Ser Donnel Locke replies.

Ned sighs. “Prince Aemon took the throne yes, over the bodies of many good men and women. He shows not a lick of mercy or common sense. Do you truly think he will allow you to go about living your lives should he remain on the throne? He will do exactly as his father did and demand more and more from you, until such a time as you have nothing to give, then he shall kill you and those you care about.” Those same words were said by his own father about King Aerys, and they turned out to be true.

“Your son seems to disagree with you my lord. He seems to have become quite the loyal servant of Prince Aemon, and he has been rewarded for it.” Lord Flint points out, something in his tone suggesting he does not agree with that.

Not for the first time, Ned feels a sharp pain at the mention of his son’s name. Cat had written to say that she had written to Robb and not gotten a response back either, had they so failed their son? The ache grows worse. “And do you truly wish to be someone who owes themselves completely to a southerner my lord Flint?” Ned asks, playing on the old prejudices he knows someone like Flint has. “Prince Aemon will continue to demand things from you, promising you rewards and not delivering on them, there is nothing he would love to do more so than that. He will promise you the sun and give you nothing.”

“And how do you know this?” Locke asks, his tone confrontational.

Ned takes a deep breath then replies. “Look around you my lords. Has Prince Aemon actually given any of the things he has promised? He has brought a foreign army across the sea, using them to enforce his will over the people, he has promised things and withheld delivering on them. King Aegon has brought people back home, he has united them behind his cause. They are fighting for him because they believe in him, not because they are scared of him.”

There is a moment of silence, and then Lord Flint speaks. “You speak truly my lord, but then why is your son so devoutly sworn to the Prince?”

An honest question, and one that causes Ned’s heart to lurch in fear and grief as he thinks about it. He takes a deep breath then says. “Robb is young and he has suffered a great many losses. I admit I failed in not being there for him. But he will soon see that the Prince is not the right man to lead through this troubled time, only the King can.”

Before anyone else can respond, there is a knock on the door, and a man dressed in the sun and dragon of King Aegon’s personal sigil enters and says. “The King wishes for you all to come to his solar my lords.” Ned nods and so do Ser Donnel and Lord Flint, they stand up and walk out of the room, making the short journey to the King’s solar, soon to be Lord Edric’s solar and once there, they bow before the King. “You summoned us Your Grace?” Ned asks.

The King looks distracted when he replies. “Yes, I did.” He gestures toward the box on the table before them. “This box came this morning, addressed to you my lord. I believe you should open it and see what it contains.”

Hesitantly, Ned moves toward the box, and looks at it, it has no engravings on it, nothing on it at all, cautiously he opens the latch and lifts the lid. The box opens and he feels his heart lurch a little, vomit entering his mouth. Inside the box there is white wolf’s head, and inside, inside, oh gods no. “Jon….” He cries out in anguish, he finds himself lifting out half his nephew’s face from the jaws of Ghost and looking at it in horror.

“There is a note my lord.” Ser Donnel says, his voice barely masking his horror. “From King Aemon Targaryen, for the traitor Lord Stark.”


	69. Broken Down

**Lord Robb Stark**

A box had come from somewhere, a box that contained the pelt of his brother’s direwolf Ghost, and half of his brother’s face. A letter had been attached, a letter that stated that this had been carried out on the order of Aegon Targaryen. Robb had been blinded with rage, his brother was dead, his brother had been mutilated, and now it was up to him to get revenge, if he had to kill his father to get that he would. How father could still fight for that man he did not know. He didn’t know anything anymore; all he knew was that he wanted to fight and he wanted to kill and so when the King had come to him asking him to command a force to deal with the rogue Stormlords who had left to make for the Stormlands he had agreed.

He had said goodbye to Margaery embracing her and promising that they would marry when he returned, whenever that might be, and she had given him her favour, then he had ridden off. His uncle Lord Edmure, and the rivermen were with him and the remaining northmen, fighting off the anger at the desertions of Locke and Flint, and so they were marching. The Valemen had been left in King’s Landing to help protect the city from any rogue fighters. Onward they marched, preparing for the inevitable fighting to come. His heart beat a steady rhythm, and he knew he was ready to fight, there was nothing he wanted more than to fight. To feel someone else die, to cause someone else the pain and anger he was feeling, that was all he wanted. And so he marched, his men and the rivermen marching behind him, they would have revenge.

The Stormlords fly the banner of the false King and the Baratheon bastard he legitimised, Robb had urged the King to recognise Tommen Baratheon as lord of the Stormlands, but the King had refused, stating something about precedent, Robb did not understand that nor did he care. All he cared about now was killing the bastards before him who had dared turn their back on the man they had sworn an oath to. If that included his father, then so be it. His father had lost the right to being avoided when he had continued to support the false pretender after Jon’s death. Robb sees the army approaching, draws his sword, roars a challenge and begins charging down toward the enemy, his men at his side. The rush of blood causes him to sing aloud, shouting something he does not know, but knowing it keeps him alive.

The men before him fall to their knees the moment he and Grey Wind arrive, he knows men are terrified of him in battle, and they rightfully should be, he is not a man when he fights, he is a beast. He will destroy anyone who gets in his way. His sword sings as more and more men fall to their deaths. Blood splashes onto the ground, Grey Wind rips the throats out of boys no older than Jon would’ve been when he died, the thought keeps him going, he keeps killing, everyone who dies revenge for Jon, he sees the image of his brother’s head, half of it anyway, eye staring unseeing, he remembers his horror the grief, all of it, he remembers all of it and he keeps fighting. His body takes hits, some big, some small, it does not matter, he keeps fighting. His sword leads him through the pain, through the areas where there is darkness, he knows he will not remember this in the time to come, he does not care, he keeps fighting.

A blow comes, to his chest, to his helm, to his legs, there are blows raining all over him, he does not know where they come from, he cannot see properly, but he knows they are coming and they are coming quickly. He swings his sword, using it to deflect blows and possibly lessen the strain he is under. Greywind is nearby biting and tearing chunks out of the growing army around him. Robb does not know where his own men are, he cannot hear their distinctive shouts and cries, he just hears the enemy, and that frightens him. He pushes through his fear, swinging his sword, determined not to let it break him, he cannot allow it to break him. He keeps going, swinging his sword, roaring challenges, barking orders, hoping against hope that someone, anyone will hear them and comply. He knows it might be a forlorn expectation but he has to do it.

There is a small batch of men hovering near the back of the army, he can see them through the slits in his helm, he knows without having to guess that this must be Edric Baratheon, formerly Storm. If he can get to the boy, he can kill him and end this, shatter their resistance and make it for good or for ill. What the boy is doing so close to the front he does not know, most likely, the boy had some foolish urge to be like his father, something Robb has found is not a good thing. He smiles, calls out, hoping his men will come to his aid should things get difficult. He raises tired arms up and begins the assault anew, swinging his sword with passion, cutting through the enemy, and ensuring that they do not come close to him. The guards of the boy see his plan, but they are hopeless, soon enough he closes in.

There are men closing in, he does not care, they blur before him, and he cuts them down, his blade singing as he does so. He is so close, so very close, he roars a challenge, one is roared back at him and he swings his sword, cutting through the gauze of armour and sleet that is falling, snow, winter. It all blurs in his head, but he moves, his horse stumbles, then rights itself, he keeps going. He comes to the boy, and in two strokes has killed the boy. As he dismounts he holds the boys head up and he roars. “Father! Is this what you wanted father?!”


	70. Heavy Lies The Crown

**King Aemon I Targaryen**

King’s Landing was his home, the home he and Dany would make it for their child, a boy, Aemon was convinced it would be a boy, that their child would be the continuation of their line to ensure that no one would dare think to overthrow them once the pretender in the south was dead and buried. Whether the pretender was actually their nephew was something that Aemon was not sure about, but he knew that the boy was not the rightful heir to the throne, Viserys had been by right of what their father had done, and then when Viserys had died, Aemon had become the heir, and now he was the crowned and anointed sovereign. There were a few things that needed solving within the city before he could fly off for war, and so that was why the council meeting had been called.

“Tell me Lord Baelish how did your meeting with the Iron Bank go? Are they happy with the payments and reassurances you have made?” Aemon asks, he already knows how the meeting went, he got a fully detailed report from the eunuch when it happened, but he wants to know what the mockingbird will say.

Baelish smiles at him and Aemon gets the vague hint of mint. “It went very well Your Grace. The Iron Bank was more than pleased to receive the money that they were owed, and they hope that from now on any such business will be repaid promptly and with great assurance. Something I was more than happy to assure them of.”

 _At least the fool is telling the truth now._ Aemon thinks to himself, somewhere in the distance Belgabad sits, waiting for a moment to strike, for now though Aemon will have to content himself with the feasting of lesser beasts. “And tell me my lord, have you been able to find out where the money lacking from the books has disappeared off to?” Dany had found the missing money when she had snuck a look at the books, something Missandei had also pointed out, Aemon had his suspicions but he was not going to act straight away.

Baelish seems to be hesitating for a moment, but then his face smoothes over and he smiles. “I have found several pots of gold that Tywin Lannister invested into a brothel whilst he was Hand of the King, or rather what his son Tyrion invested in, taking from the crown’s coffers itself. Other than that, the rest of the money is still on the loose.”

 _Another lie my lord? Come now, surely you know better than to lie to a dragon?_ Smiling Aemon nods. “Very well my lord, perhaps you can answer this question then. How is it that when the crown was in so much debt, you thought it a good idea to allow the Lannisters to take so much from the treasury, did you not think that perhaps the debt would come calling sooner rather than later?”

Somewhere, Belgabad is growling, reflecting Aemon’s anger. Baelish squirms a little at the sound, but his voice is still light when he replies. “I had thought it prudent to allow them a chance to examine the books themselves Sire. I had thought, wrongly, that once they saw just how badly we needed that money they would resist their attempts at spending. It seems I was wrong.”

Aemon does not believe the man, but for now he decides to let it lie, once Jorah has found more proof he will bring Baelish down to the ground.  For now, he turns to Lord Tyrell who sits on his council as master of laws and asks. “Tell me my lord, what word do you have from Lord Tarly? Has he made good progress on dealing with the threat we face?” the threat being the Dothraki horde who had gone pillaging on his orders.

Tyrell is a great fat oaf of a man, who seems to live in that harridan he calls a mother’s shadow, but there is a smartness underneath it all, and it is that to which Aemon is appealing to. “Lord Tarly writes that the victory has been won. The Dothraki were driven to the walls of the castles where they attempted to plunder and they were broken. Your man Rakharo did his duty well Sire.”

 _Of course, Rakharo did, he is mine and always has been, from that moment we met, he was mine to do with as I pleased. He will march into the seven hells if I ask it of him._ Aemon did not say that aloud though, instead he nods and says. “Good, tell Lord Tarly that he is to ride on to meet with Lord Stark and the northmen and the rivermen and to advance toward Storm’s End. With any luck the damage that Stark did to the Stormlords will cause the pretender to come rolling out.”

Lord Tyrell nods, and Varys asks. “Sire, with Edric Storm dead, who will you name as the Lord of Storm’s End? There are several nobles within the Stormlands who have minor claims to the seat, but they are not powerful enough to hold it without your constant support.”

Aemon nods, and Lord Royce who served as an advisor speaks. “Perhaps it would be best to appoint the Tommen boy as Lord of Storm’s End? He will be remaining in King’s Landing for the time being will he not Your Grace? He has already renounced his rights to the throne, sending him away from your control will do nothing, but give those who want you gone an opportunity. Tommen Baratheon is Robert’s son, the Stormlords will respect that.”

“Will they respect it enough to stay neutral, or will they rise in rebellion at the first chance?” Jorah asks, his voice challenging.

Before Royce can reply, Aemon speaks. “Tommen Baratheon might well be named Lord of Storm’s End, though that Mya girl you brought with you might also serve. The Starks have suffered greatly during this war, perhaps a bone can be thrown to them.”


	71. Father, Father, Where Art Thou?

**Lord Eddard Stark**

Storm’s End was becoming oppressive, he was becoming restless, he needed to do something, but for now the King seemed more than content to allow them all to sit there and plan. The results of that were coming through now, as Jon Connington speaks. “Lord Grandison reports that the northmen under Lord Stark’s son, and the rivermen under his goodbrother Lord Edmure met their army and defeated them. It was quite the brutal battle Your Grace, it seems that the northmen and rivermen were not in the mood to give peace, even to those who put down their swords.”

Ned can hear the accusation in Connington’s words, and the tiredness he feels at such an accusation is making his head hurt. “How did Grandison survive then if they were being so ruthless?” the King asks, his tone neutral.

“He was in command of the reserve Sire, and when he saw that the fighting was going southwards, he retreated. He thought it better that someone survive from the fight and live to tell the tale instead of allowing you to be caught blind.” Connington says.

The King looks quite distressed when he asks. “How many men did Grandison bring with him?”

Here Connington looks somewhat distressed himself. “Around four hundred Sire. They were attacked as they tried to retreat by Stark and his men, despite them flying banners of peace.”

Ned cannot believe that, he knows Robb, he knows his son, and he knows his son would never do something like that. “Grandison must have seen wrongly. My son would never have done that.”

Connington does not look impressed. “Your son was also supposed to have sworn himself to his rightful King by now Stark, and yet he has not. He has ignored every letter you have ever written to him since coming back, and he is supporting a King who killed your son. So tell me Stark, do you really know your son as well as you think?”

Ned remains silent, admitting defeat, he does not know his son as well as he would like, and that hurts him more than he thought possible. In the silence, Prince Oberyn, a man who bears him no love speaks. “So the rebel Stormlords who were to meet with us have been defeated and slain to a man. What of Lord Edric and the men who went with him?”

Here Connington hesitates, risking a glance at the King, and Ned feels his heart sink even further, the boy was but a child, no older than Bran or Arya. “He was slain trying to flee from the battle.” Connington states, then he looks at Ned and says. “By your son Stark. Your son killed a man who had thrown down his weapons.”

“He was not even a man; he was a boy.” One of the Dornish Lords chimes in, staring daggers at Ned.

Ned feels himself sink further and further into a well of sadness and sorrow, his son, his son seems as if he has lost his way, Ned feels as if he has lost his way as well, he does not know where to look, who to look to. All he knows is that he needs to find his son. Before he can say anything though, his King speaks. “Lord Edric is dead, then is he? We do not have his half-brother in our possession, but we do have his half-sister. I believe a change is in order then.” The King looks at his uncle and says. “Your nephew will consent to having his betrothal broken I trust.”

“My nephew will do what it takes to see Your Grace’s needs done.” The Prince replies.

The King nods. “Good. Lord Connington, your cousin is now formally betrothed to Princess Myrcella and he shall rule as Lord of Storm’s End from here on in.”

That surprises them all, but Ned can see the sense in it, slowly Connington asks. “Which of my cousins Sire?”

“Raymund.” The King replies smiling.

Connington looks uncertain about this, but he nods all the same. “Very well Your Grace, I am sure Raymund will be delighted at the honour.”

The King nods, then looks at Ned and says. “Now Lord Stark, I must ask you something very important.”

Nervously, Ned asks. “Your Grace?”

“Your son has not replied to any of your letters, as you have said yourself. He has done things contrary to my interests and therefore contrary to your interests, he supports a man who killed your son, and yet you insist that he will be able to see the light and that he will fight for me. Considering his murdering of Edric Storm, I must ask, do you still believe that?” the King asks.

Ned looks at the King, feeling all the old nerves that once plagued him as a youth come falling back into him. He feels as though he has failed, that Brandon would never have let things get so far south for their family. Slowly, softly and painfully he says. “I believe so Your Grace.”

Connington snorts, but the King places a hand on the man’s arm and asks. “And why is that?”

Ned takes a breath, then looks at the King. “Because he is my son Your Grace, he is my flesh and blood and I cannot give up on him. I know that there are things between us that need to be resolved, and I know that should I get the chance to resolve them, then things can work well between us. I am confident of that.”

“And if the boy refuses to accept your reasons, and your explanations? If he continues to serve a false King?” the King asks. “What will you do then?”

Ned closes his eyes, praying that the gods will forgive him, that Cat will forgive him should it ever come to this. “Then I will do whatever is necessary Your Grace.” The moment the words leave his mouth he feels horrible.

The King however, seems pleased. “Very well, you shall leave with your men and ride out to meet with your son on the morrow.”

 


	72. Gunslinger

**Queen Daenerys Targaryen**

The day she had dreaded had finally come, her husband was going to be leaving for war, not to take the throne but to defend it. The plans were all in place, the armies were ready to march, all that needed to be said now was their goodbyes. She was grateful it was early still and that her husband would not be leaving until after their fast had been broken. The past few moons in King’s Landing had been different, for her entire life, Dany had been running and now she had finally stopped running and it felt good, it felt good to be free from that burden, to be able to love her brother openly without fear. She knew her felt the same, could feel it when they made love, when he spoke to her, when he felt her stomach, everything showed that he loved her and she loved him. She was nervous though, so very nervous, she was terrified of losing him.

A voice calls her from her musings. “Hey! Where did you disappear to?” Dany looks down at her husband- that word sends a thrill down her spine! - and smiles.

“Nowhere, I was merely thinking.” Dany replies smiling, running her hands through his hair.

Her husband smiles. “And what were you thinking about?”

Dany thinks for a moment she doesn’t want to burden him with her worries the day he’s supposed to leave, but she replies. “About us. About our babe, about how good it has been since we came to King’s Landing.”

Her husband sits up then and envelopes her in his arms. He kisses her hair and whispers in her ear. “I know you’re worried Dany. You don’t have to be worried.”

“I just wish I could come with you.” Dany replies. “I hate feeling like I’m doing nothing here, whilst you’re out there.”

“You’re not doing nothing my love.” Her brother replies, turning her so that she looks at him, he looks so very sincere. “You are my wife, my love, and you mean more to me than anything else in this world. You also carry our child inside of you. I would not want you out there, risking your life. You mean more to me than that. You will be my regent whilst I am away, with Jorah helping you. You are going to be holding the kingdoms for me.”

Dany nods, her heart thumping. “I know. It’s just, that I worry.” She knows that she shouldn’t be saying these things, but the words come out anyway. “What if something happens? What if something goes wrong? I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Her husband kisses her then. When he pulls away he smiles at her softly. “I won’t say nothing will happen. I will not lie to you, my love, but I can promise you that I will do all I can to come home to you and our babe. I will win, and I will make sure we win on the ground. We have far more men than this pretender does, more experienced men, and men who have something to prove. We will win.”

Dany nods, and then she asks a question she’s been meaning to ask for some time. “Do you think the pretender is who he says he is? Do you think he could actually be Aegon Targaryen?”

Her brother takes a moment to consider the question, then when he replies she hears something akin to uncertainty in his voice. “Truth be told I do not know. Everything suggests he is not, but there is something here suggesting he might be. After all Stark was married to a woman who claimed she was Rhaenys Targaryen, and the willingness with which Dorne has declared for him makes me think perhaps they knew.”

“Do you think Varys knew?” Dany asks nervously, if the Spider is responsible for the survival of an active threat to her husband and her babe, she wants him gone.

Aemon sighs. “I think he might have done something during the rebellion, but what I cannot say. It all seems very suspicious I admit. But right now, Varys has done more for us, than he has done for the pretender.”

Dany does not like that answer, but she knows better than pressing that issue right now, instead she asks. “What about Stark, his father is fighting for the pretender. Has he asked you what you will do with the man if you capture him?”

Here Aemon’s shoulders stiffen, and his voice is barely above a whisper, as if he is afraid someone is listening. “I do not know. Stark has not asked; I think he is scared that if he asks the thought of facing the man he loves will become all too real. I believe Stark deserves a chance to explain himself to his father and his father deserves the chance to explain himself to him. Should Stark deem it worthwhile, the man will live, if not he will die.”

“Do you think that is wise?” Dany asks. “After all that is the man’s father you are talking about, I do not think he would be thinking very clearly on the issue. And would it not be more in your interest to ensure you have the choice of who sits in Winterfell?”

Her husband sighs. “You are not wrong, but Stark has been through enough. I think he has earned the right to make that choice for himself.” With that her husband rises and begins putting on his clothes, Dany sits and watches him, her heart full with love, but also fear.

“What do you want to call our child?” she asks then, trying to give him something else to think about before he leaves for war.

Her husband stops, his fingers hovering over the buttons of his shirt. “I think we should give our child a new name.” he says. “One not tainted by the history of our family in Westeros.”

“Hmm. Perhaps Daenys for a girl?” Daenerys suggests.

“Gaemon for a boy?” Her brother asks.

“Perfect.” She replies, then she rises and with the sheet draped over her she kisses her husband. They break their fast in silence, and then later that morning, dressed in the red and black of their house, she gives her favour to her husband, and watches him mount Belgabad, the dragon a hulking black monster now, Daenerys watches her husband fly away as the army marches and she prays he returns to her safe and sound.

 

 


	73. Battle

**Lord Robb Stark**

Winter was here, it had come in a flash, and Robb was not sure how to feel. He remembered the brief winter of his youth-how funny, he was still young, but he did not feel like he was- and how the snow had fallen in a light patch, here and there, and how they had played in it. With father and mother watching on smiling and laughing. This time, winter had come, snow was falling, but there was no laughter, there was only a sense of grimness. There was going to be a fight, a fight that would end either with his death or his father’s death. That was a terrifying thought, but he knew it had to be done. Tarly had come with his men, the butcher of the Dothraki, dressed in his armour, commanding and imperious, and he had deigned command to Robb, and so they here they were, sat and saddled on their horses, near the streams of old, waiting.

The sound of drums echoes in the sky, filling him with both confidence and nerves, Greywind is at his side, as always, his friend and ally, he knows what needs to be done, he just finds himself wondering if he will be able to do the deed when the time comes. He hopes so. He does not want to drag things it out for longer than needs be. One of them must live and the other must die, he has come to accept this, and yet that does not make it any easier for him. He sits there, waiting for the sounds of war to begin, as the drums get louder and louder, he knows what needs to be done, he just hopes that it becomes easier, and that regardless of what happens, that his family can forgive him. The war begins then, and he moves his horse into action, slowly but surely, he moves, and his army moves with him, the beat of the drum, lures him into the rhythm.

Swords are drawn and men fight, awooo, goes the beat of the drum, and the horns that sound. Robb feels as though he is being lured into a trap, but his heart is hammering, and he knows that he cannot stop now, so he keeps going, swinging his sword, hacking away at those who would try and bring him down. His father is somewhere here, he knows that. Knows that his father will always lead from the front, and so he keeps going, pushing through the throng of men and bodies, his horse rearing once or twice, but not causing too many issues, used to blood as it is. They keep going, the swords moving, the bodies falling, sweat falls from his face in his helm, gathering more and more of the pressure that seems to be growing. He keeps going. Pain, there is pain in his hands and he does not know how, but he keeps going, more and more men fall, pain grows, but he keeps on it, moving trying desperately to ignore what other things happen.

Boom, boom, boom, go the drums, and his brain echoes with them, the sounds of impending war and gloom, he does not know whether to laugh or cry, but he keeps fighting. Sweat trails down his face, blood is staining his armour, and his gauntlets. There are men lying on the ground, buried in ash and snow, but still they keep fighting. Tarly is somewhere out there, fighting, hacking away, barking orders, the rivermen and his remaining northmen are there as well, Greywind is out there somewhere, they keep fighting. His brain hurts, he hurts, but still he keeps going, to stop fighting now would be a crime, it would be treason, he knows what he promised his King, and he will not stop until it is done, even if it means giving up his soul. If he even has one left, Robb thinks he might have given that up long ago, when he killed his first man, he became less pure, and more of a savage, the very thing his father would’ve hated. Ironic that, for his father is now the very thing he hates, a coward and a craven, a traitor. There is anger in him now, his strokes become more savage, his slashes break through steel and through armour.

Young men no older than Jon are cut down, older men are cut down, all men are cut down in the end, he supposes that is the bitter pill they must swallow in the end, that no matter their achievements in life, at the end of it all, they are just one more cog in a wheel that has been turning since the dawn of time. Nothing they do matters, nothing they are matters, and so he keeps fighting. The direwolf howls, and he howls. The men scream, and he screams. His rage is moulded into their rage. He feels nothing, he knows nothing. All he wants to do is sleep, sleep and never wake up again. He can see his wife’s eyes, looking at him with love, he wants her, but she is dead, gone, killed because of his indecision, and he screams. Another man dies, and that is when he sees him. His father charging toward him, they move toward one another. His father tries to say something, but over the roar of his heart thumping in his ears, Robb does not here him.

Their swords clatter against one another, blows are exchanged, neither of them is fighting to their true potential, they are both tired, so very tired. He keeps fighting though, his rage fuelling his every move, his anger, fuelling his desire for revenge. They swing, armour falls, they keep fighting, hacking away at one another, their horses break from tiredness, they dismount and they fight, they keep fighting, both of them knowing one another, they keep fighting. He keeps pushing himself, through it all, tired and alone, he fights his father, his father fights him. They fall to the ground, their helms break, they break, then the dragons roar.


	74. Dance of Dragons

**King Aemon I Targaryen**

Snow had fallen the day before they had set off for battle, it had slowed the army and his dragon, Belgabad had not reacted badly to the snow, but he had not been happy about it either, letting his unhappiness show through burning whatever or whoever came in his way. Eventually, the snow had settled and they had been able to move from their camp out into the world. Slowly but surely they had moved, and when they had arrived, the fighting had already started, there was chaos on the ground below them, men were fighting, screaming, begging for relief, and Aemon dressed in black as night armour, a dragon helm and crown on his head, had seen it all and felt anger. The pretender had caused much and more destruction to the land around them, he had been responsible for the deaths that had passed as they had marched through the lands of the storm, and Aemon was determined to make him pay.

Belgabad soars into the air, roaring out a challenge, Aemon wonders if the pretender will answer it, he hopes that the boy does, he truly does. He wants to fight the boy who calls himself after a dead baby, to see the man who would insult Rhaegar’s memory. There is no response immediately, and so Aemon settles on allowing Belgabad to breathe fire out onto the ground below, the screams of men filter through the air, and set a song for Belgabad to follow. They breathe fire onto the ground below, burning a pathway through the armies, and reducing numbers. Soon enough, the armies of the lords shall be weakened, and they will be unable to oppose him. That was something his father had lacked, but for now, they will suffice. The burning continues, and onwards they go. Looking, scouting out for the enemy, no sight of him at all, no sight of him at all, until a dragon roars and they dance.

Teeth and claw are brought into action, and as they get closer to the enemy, Aemon uses his sword, Blackfyre, the sword of Kings to fight the enemy. Steel meets steel and sparks fly, they pull apart as their dragons move back, fire is unleashed, jets of red, black and green, then they move closer together, and the fighting begins anew. Their swords sing a mournful song, blades, humming against one another, they recognise who they are, and why they are fighting, and they are deeply unhappy about this. They move at their masters’ command though, a slice here, a cut there, then they pull apart and fire is unleashed. On the ground, the soldiers watch mesmerised, no dragon has ever fought since the dance, and now they are fighting. The fighting continues. A swipe here causes one dragon to cry out in pain, a swipe there, causes another to roar in anger. The sun has disappeared underneath the fighting of the beasts that make their riders gods. They fight, breaking apart one by one, until the armour of their riders is broken and creaking. Still they move forward, the fighting continues.

Aemon feels alive, as alive as he has ever felt, and the rush of it all makes him laugh. The pretender is sat on his dragon, looking concerned and terrified. Aemon moves forward, swinging his sword whilst Belgabad roars a challenge and rips out a chunk from the enemy’s dragon. Their dance continues, Aemon swings, the pretender blocks, the pretender swings, Aemon blocks. Their dance moves further and further from the battlefield, the armies fighting on the ground unable to see them for the clouds and the beginning fall of snow. The snow dampens their dragons’ fire some, but not enough for it not to be effective, both of them get burned at one point or another, or singed. But they keep fighting. Bleeding and aching, they move forward, swinging their weapons, their dragons coming in for the brace. A smack here, a smack there, they move forward, breaking the enemy as they do so. But still they keep going, their dance cannot end, the song being sung is a sad one, it makes them both ache with worry, and regret over what they are doing, but they keep going.

Belgabad smashes into the smaller dragon, teeth and claws at the ready, they make short work of the enemy, an eye falls to the ground then another tooth, then another. “Yield!” Aemon roars at the pretender. “Yield and I might let you live!” there is some response from the pretender, but what it is, Aemon does not know, for it gets lost in the moving of wings and the wind that comes from that. They pause for a brief moment, then they are back at it. Teeth, claws, swords, blood and spit, all things that cause the world to turn upside down. Aemon curses, feeling as if he might throw up, but he continues onward regardless, his sword guiding him through it all. They meet and fight, and meet and break apart again. The dance continues, Belgabad is bloodied, as is the other dragon, Aemon is sweating, panting and heaving, desperate for some sort of relief, but unsure of whether or not that relief will come anytime soon. Another breath, he moves forward, then the fight begins again.

Blood, that is the one thought that echoes in his mind, blood, the only thing that counts, the only reason he continues to fight. He must protect his blood, and this man has shown he is not that. In fact, the pretender is the furthest thing from blood that it is possible to get. They fight once more, their steel clanging against one another, and then, Aemon decides to do something very risky. He frees himself from his straps, and lunges onto the enemy dragon, he cuts, and swings and moves, and the enemy falls, the enemy dragon falls as it tries to get free. Belgabad is there waiting for Aemon as he jumps off, narrowly avoiding plummeting down with the pretender. Aemon watches from his dragon, as the enemy and the dragon fall to the ground, the ground shakes as they hit, and the war, the war ends with the death of one of three dragons. Aemon watches, and he roars, Belgabad roars, they roar together, and the world quakes.


	75. Hello, Son.

****

**Lord Eddard Stark**

The memories of the battle were blurred in his mind. One minute he had been fighting a nameless, faceless soldier, the next, he had been fighting Robb, his firstborn, his heir. He had tried to put the thought of potentially crossing blades with his son out of his mind, but then when he had faced his son, it had all come rushing back. His son had not even tried to speak with him, instead they had fought. And even though his son was trying to kill him, Ned had felt a certain pride at seeing just how well his son held himself in the field of battle. They had been dismounted when the dragons came, and that was when everything had gone black. He’d woken up on the way to King’s Landing, his son at his side, though they had not spoken, and now here he was in King’s Landing, alive, in a room, and the door was open, and his son was standing there looking at him.

Ned looks at his son. “Hello, son. Are you going to just stand there staring at me, or are we going to talk like men?” he knows that will spark his son into action, and just as he thought the words do.

“So now you want to talk like men? Funny that. Your attitude before that was to treat me as if I was a child still. As if I had not just fought for two years, married and seen my wife and child die in front of my eyes. Why should I talk to you now?” his son replies with a sharp biting tone that is all Catelyn.

Ned holds his hands up and winces slightly at the pain in his right hand. “I admit doing that was not very smart of me. It was a mistake, and I apologise, I should have known writing to you as if you were still a boy was not the right move. And yet, you never did think to correct me, by replying. That was quite rude.” Again, he gets the reaction he expected.

“Rude?! You want to know what was rude father? It was you letting all of us think you were dead for two years, and then suddenly appearing at the head of an army supporting a pretender, and expecting everything to go back to normal.” Robb fumes. “You had not the decency to write to any of us.”

Ned sighs, feeling the weight of the past two years’ weigh down him. “I know, and that was wrong of me. I admit, I had thought that by not writing to you, I would spare you any sort of suspicion, I could not trust the people I was with, for they kept me there against my will for a long time.”

“And you did not think to escape? To make it back to your family? Uncle Benjen died trying to carry out some plot of yours!” Robb replies, his tone accusatory.

Ned can feel frustration growing inside of him, but he knows he needs to remain calm and so instead he says. “I know, that was my mistake, and I admit my decisions have not been the soundest ones to have made since going south. I went in over my head, and I have suffered for it, the family has suffered for it. And for that I am truly sorry Robb, I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Well happen it did.” His son replies. “How could you keep fighting for someone who had a hand in Jon’s death?”

Ned is stunned by this. “Aegon had nothing to do with Jon’s death, that was your King’s doing.”

His son shakes his head fervently. “No! We received a package which had half of Jon’s face in it with a note saying this was done by your pretender.”

“As did we.” Ned responds, his mind whirring into action at this, eventually he sighs. “Someone has been meaning for this to happen for some time then.”

“But why?” Robb asks, his tone sounding confused now, not angry.

Ned thinks for a moment considering his options and then says simply. “Someone who evidently has a grudge against our family, and there is only one person who that could be, but how he could get access to Jon I do not know. It does not matter now, as much as it pains me to say this, Jon is dead, and we must move forward.” He sees his son shift restlessly, and he feels grief envelop him once more. _Forgive me Lya, I failed._ “So tell me Robb, what are you here to decide?”

“What do you mean?” his son asks sounding confused.

Ned tuts then. “Come now Robb, I am not a fool. I know that your King has tasked you with deciding my fate. So, tell me son, what will you have done with me?”

Ned can tell his son was not expecting this to be brought up so soon. There is a sense of uncertainty about him now, and Ned is reminded of just how young his son truly is, and he feels regret for everything that has passed. His son looks at him and asks. “If I let you live, will you bend the knee to the King and come back home?”

Ned is surprised by this. “You would not want to continue as Lord of Winterfell?”

At his question, Robb seems to deflate, the past two years showing heavily on his shoulders and his face. “I have not liked being Lord of Winterfell father. I have found it a struggle; I do not know how you made it look so easy. I have much to learn, but I need to know something.”

“And what is that?” Ned asks bemused.

“If you agree to this, I want you to treat me as an adult. I am not a boy anymore. I have led men in battle and I have negotiated through court. I need to be treated as an adult, for that is what I am.” Robb says.

In his son’s words, Ned hears something he heard Brandon saying to their father once long ago, and so he nods and says. “Very well I agree. I will bend the knee to King Aemon and I will treat you as you have asked.”

Robb extends a hand and Ned clasps it. “Very well, it is good to have you home father.” Ned stands up and embraces his son.


	76. Return to Serenity

****

**King Aemon I Targaryen**

The war was done, Aegon Targaryen had died, crushed by his dragon as he had fallen. Aemon had seen the corpse when the battle had ended, the boy had had silver hair and violet eyes, but Aemon did not know if he looked like Rhaegar or not, for he did not know Rhaegar, had never known Rhaegar. Aemon had thought he would feel satisfaction at the pretender’s death, instead all he felt was remorse, remorse that so many had had to die, and that a dragon had to die as well. Still they had moved on from there, Connington had died during the fighting, as had Oberyn Martell, the man’s niece was dead, executed for treason, and Doran Martell had died from a heart attack. Stark was alive, and many other things had happened as well during that time. Dany had given birth, he’d come back to find twins waiting for him, a boy named Gaemon and a girl, named not Daenys, but Rhaella for their mother. They were perfect, everything was perfect, and now it was time for a court session, the final one before they broke for feasting.

Aemon was sat on the throne, looking down at all those who were there in the throne room, the knights of the Kingsguard, his Kingsguard stood there guarding the throne all seven of them, and Rakharo was there as well, Grey Worm also, his wife sat on a throne just down from him. He looks at all of them then speaks, and silence falls. “My lords and ladies. I thank you all for coming today. We have suffered through a long war, started long ago when things beyond our control happened. Winter has come, and with it, we hope for peace and a chance for us to rebuild and start a fresh. Already the royal treasury is replenished and work to rebuild the Riverlands and Stormlands has begun. Today, I shall make a few announcements, and take oaths of fealty.” He pauses and sees some people shifting nervously, he smiles and continues speaking. “Firstly, I believe it is important for a King to have a council, my ancestor King Aegon the First, believed in ruling fairly, and so shall I. I name as Hand of the King, Lord Jorah Mormont and confirm him in his land and titles as Lord of Bear Island.” There is a muted murmur at that, Aemon nods at Jorah then continues. “I confirm Lord Varys as my Master of Whispers; the man has done a very good job and has proven most useful for us.” Little is said at that. “We name Lord Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone as Master of Laws.” There is some murmuring there. “Master of Ships of courses goes to our good friend and ally Lord Paxter Redwyne.” Somewhere in the shadows, Aemon knows Velaryon is pouting, but Aemon does not care. “As Grand Maester, as appointed by the citadel, we welcome Maester Gormon.” The old Maester comes forward and bows as the others had. “Finally, as master of coin we name Lord Mooton.” This causes some murmuring, Mooton is weak, but he controls a city, and as such, Aemon will use him, Baelish sits in chains, for multiple things, his crimes had been revealed when Aemon had returned. Those named to the council step forward and swear their oaths of allegiance, with Aemon saying the necessary words in response.

Once that is done, Aemon speaks once more, gesturing to the seven white knights standing at the foot of the throne. “The Kingsguard suffered a grievous blow when the usurper took command. There were men who served who were underserving of that cloak, and there were men who were forced into serving a King or Kings who were underserving of that title. The knights you see before the throne, are those who I believe will best represent the heart of chivalry. Lord Commander Ser Brynden Tully, Ser Arys Oakheart, Ser Rolland Storm, Ser Gerold Dayne, Ser Balon Swann, Ser Lyle Crakehall and Ser Robar Royce.” There is applause then, as they all recognise the importance of what has been said. The Targaryen dragon flies on their sigils now, not the Baratheon stag.

Once the murmuring has settled, Aemon looks around the room, notes the faces there and speaks loudly and clearly. “We have lost much during this war. Westeros has been subject to bad rule for many years now. I intend to change that, I intend to make sure that the corruption and the destruction of my father’s reign as well as that of the usurper’s reign does not happen. For that to be the case, I need loyal lords and lord paramounts at my side. I believe I have them.” He pauses, waiting as the respective lords come forward. “As Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Lord of Casterly Rock Kevan Lannister.” The man bows and swears his oath of fealty. “As Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord of Riverrun, Edmure Tully.” The man comes and does the same as Kevan Lannister. “As Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East Robert Arryn.” The young boy comes forward and on shaky legs bows and swears his oath. “As Lord Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South, Lord of Highgarden Mace Tyrell.” The bumbling oath comes and vows himself to the throne. He pauses for a moment, allowing tension to grow. “Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Eddard Stark.” A shock gasp goes up, and though he is wary of the man, Stark still swears the vows. “Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands Tommen Baratheon.” A dangerous move this, but one he knows will make sense. “And finally, Lord Paramount of Dorne, Quentyn Martell.” The boy comes and swears his vows. Seeing the lords paramounts all on their knees fills him with power, eventually Aemon says. “Now rise and go and make my kingdom safe again.”

They all rise and make suitable noises, though Aemon knows he will keep a close eye on all of them. Finally, the final piece of court happens. Baelish is brought in, Aemon does not even bother speaking, he merely steps down, takes Blackfyre from his squire and swings the sword, Baelish’s head roles to the floor, to be picked up by one of the Kingsguard. Aemon sheathes the sword, hands it back to his squire and says. “Court has ended. You may go.” The courtiers leave like children being told to go play, Aemon watches them leave, then turns to his wife who has stepped off her throne, taking her hand he says. “Come my love, let us watch our kingdom grow.”

Dany smiles and replies. “I would like that, my love.”


End file.
